David Wingrove - Chung Kuo 3 - The White Mountain

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.

CHUNG KUO

by DAVID WINGROVE

BOOK 3:

THE WHITE MOUNTAIN

published by

delacorte press

Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

666 Fifth Avenue New York, New York 10103

or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without the written permission of the

Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The trademark Delacorte Press® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

Canadian Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Wingrove, David The white mountain

(Chung kuo ; v. 3) ISBN 0-385-29875-7

I. Title. II. Series: Wingrove, David. Chung kuo ; v. 3. 1991 823'. 914 C9I-O949I4-X

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

(Revised for vol. 3)

Wingrove, David. Chung Kuo.

Contents: bk. i . The Middle Kingdom —

bk. 3. The White Mountain. I. Title.

PR6o73.l54sC5 1990 823'. 914 89-16845

ISBN 0-385-29873-0 (v. i)

ISBN 0-385-29874-9 (v. 2)

ISBN 0-385-29875-7 (v. 3) .

Manufactured in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada by Doubleday Canada Limited,

105 Bond Street, Toronto, Ontario,

January 1992

to lily jackson,

from your grandson David on the occasion of your 95th birthday,

with a lifetime's love.

CONTENTS

B O O K 3 The White Mountain

PART i Summer 2207—AT THE BRIDGE OF CH'IN

Chapter i: Scorched Earth 3

Chapter 2: Gods of the Flesh 31

Chapter 3: The Way of Deception 51

Chapter 4: Carp Pool and Tortoise Shell 71

Chapter 5: The Broken Wheel 89

Chapter 6: Chen Yen 122

Chapter 7: New Blood 141

Chapter 8: Mirrors 157

Chapter 9: The Temple of Heaven 178

Chapter 10: Ghosts 195

Chapter 11: The Tiger's Mouth 223

Chapter 12: Willow-Plum Sickness 242

Chapter 13: In the Open 259

Chapter 14: The Shattered Land 279

INTERLUDE Winter 2207 —DRAGON'S TEETH

PART 2 Summer 22o8-THE WHITE MOUNTAIN

Chapter 15: Between Light and Shadow 307

Chapter 16: Dragonflies 335

Chapter 17: In a Darkened Eye 374

Chapter iS: The Dead Brother 394

Chapter 19: White Mountain 410

Chapter 20: Flames in a Glass 432

Author's Note 453

A Glossary of Mandarin Terms 456

Acknowledgments 461

In Times to Come . . . 4^3

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.

He had been ill of late. For the first time in a long, healthy life he had been confined to bed. That, too,

seemed a sign. An indication that things were slipping from him. Control—it began with one's own body

and spread outward.

He nodded to himself, seeing it now. This was personal. An attack upon his person. For he was the

State. Was the City.

There was a sickness loose, a virus in the veins of the world. Corruption was rife. Dispersionism,

Leveling, even this current obsession in the Above with longevity—all these were symptoms of it. The

actions of such groups were subtle, invidious, not immediately evident; yet ultimately they proved fatal.

Expectations had changed and that had undermined the stability of everything. They want to pull it

down.

"What did they do here, Knut? How did they do this?"

"We've had to make some assumptions, but a few things are known for certain. Bremen Central

Maintenance reports that all communications to Deck Nine were cut at second bell."

"All?" Li Shai Tung shook his head, astonished. "Is that possible, Knut?" "That was part of the

problem. They didn't believe it, either; so they wasted an hour checking for faults in the system at their

end. They didn't think to send anyone to make a physical check."

Li Shai Tung grimaced. "Would it have made a difference?" "No. No difference, Chieh Hsia. There

was no chance of doing anything after the first ten minutes. They set their fires on four different levels.

Big, messy chemical things. Then they rigged the ventilators to pump oxygen-rich air through the system

at increased capacity." "And the seals?"

Tolonen swallowed. "There was no chance anyone could have gotten out. They'd blown the transit

and derailed the bolt. All the interlevel lifts were jammed. That was part of the communications blackout.

The whole deck must have been in darkness."

"And that's it?" Li Shai Tung felt sickened by the callousness of it all.

Tolonen hesitated, then spoke again. "This was done by experts, Chieh Hsia, Knowledgeable men,

superbly trained, efficiently organized. Our own special services men could have done no better."

Li Shai Tung looked back at him. "Say it, Knut," he said softly. "Don't keep it to yourself. Even if it

proves wrong, say it."

Tolonen met his eyes, then nodded. "All of this speaks of money. Big money. The technology needed

to cut off a deck's communications—it's all too much for normal Ping Two funding. Out of their range.

There has to be a backer."

The T'ang considered a moment. "Then it's still going on. We didn't win the War after all. Not finally."

Tolonen looked down. Li Shai Tung's manner disturbed him. Since his illness he had been different.

Off-balance and indecisive, withdrawn, almost melancholy. The sickness had robbed him of more than

his strength; it had taken some of his sharpness, his quickness of mind. It fell upon the Marshal to lead

him through this maze.

"Maybe. But more important is finding out who is the traitor in our midst." "Ah. . ." Li Shai Tung's eyes

searched his face, then looked away. "At what level have they infiltrated?"

"Staff."

He said it without hesitation, knowing that it had to be that high up the chain of command. No one else

could have shaped things in this manner. To seal off a deck, that took clout. More than the Ping Tioo

possessed.

Li Shai Tung turned away again, following his own thoughts. Maybe Yuan was right. Maybe they

should act now. Wire them all. Control them like machines. But his instinct was against it. He had held

back from acting on the Project's early findings. Even this—this outrage—could not change his mind so

far.

"It's bad, Knut. It's as if you could not trust your own hands to shave your throat ,»

Tolonen laughed, a short, bitter bark of laughter. The old T'ang turned. "You have it in hand, though,

Knut." He smiled. "You, at least, 1 trust."

The Marshal met his master's eyes, touched by what had been said, knowing that this was what

shaped his life and gave it meaning. To have this man's respect, his total trust. Without thinking, he knelt

at Li Shai Tung's feet.

"I shall find the man and deal with him, Chieh Hsia. Were it my own son, I'd deal with him."

AT THE MOMENT, on the far side of the world, Li Yuan was walking down a path on the estate in

Tongjiang. He could smell the blossoms in the air, apple and plum, and beneath those the sharper,

sweeter scent of cherry. It reminded him of how long it had been since he had been here; of how little

had changed while he had been gone.

At the top of the terrace he stopped, looking out across the valley, down the wide sweep of marble

steps toward the lake. He smiled, seeing her on the far side of the lake, walking between the trees. For a

moment he simply looked, his heart quickened just to see her; then he went down, taking the steps in

two's and three's.

He was only a few paces from her when she turned.

"Li Yuan! You didn't say . . ."

"I'm sorry, I ..." But his words faltered as he noted the roundness of her, the fullness of her belly. He

glanced up, meeting her eyes briefly, then looked down again. My son, he thought. My son.

"I'm well."

"You look wonderful," he said, taking her in his arms, conscious of the weeks that had passed since

he had last held her. But he was careful now and released her quickly, taking her hands, surprised by

how small they were, how delicate. He had forgotten.

Not, not forgotten. Simply not remembered.

He laughed softly. "How far along are you?"

She looked away. "More than halfway now. Twenty-seven weeks."

He nodded, then reached down to touch the roundness, feeling how firm she was beneath the silks

she wore, like the ripened fruit in the branches above their heads.

"I wondered . . ." she began, looking back at him, then fell silent, dropping her head.

"Wondered what?" he asked, staring at her, realizing suddenly what had been bothering him. "Besides,

what's this? Have you no smiles to welcome your husband home?"

He reached out, lifting her chin gently with his fingers, smiling; but his smile brought no response. She

turned from him petulantly, looking down at her feet. Leaf shadow fell across the perfection of her face,

patches of sunlight catching in the lustrous darkness of her hair, but her lips were pursed.

"I've brought you presents," he said softly. "Up in the house. Why don't you come and see?"

She glanced at him, then away. This time he saw the coldness in her eyes. "How long this time, Li

Yuan? A day? Two days before you're gone again?"

He sighed and looked down at her hand. It lay limply in his own, palm upward, the fingers gently bent.

"I'm not just any man, Fei Yen. My responsibilities are great, especially at this time. My father needs

me." He shook his head, trying to understand what she was feeling, but he could not help but feel angered

by her lack of welcome. It was not his fault, after all. He had thought she would be pleased to see him.

"If I'm away a lot, it can't be helped. Not just now. I would rather be here, believe me, my love. I

really would . . ."

She seemed to relent a little; momentarily her hand returned the pressure of his own, but her face was

still turned from his.

"I never see you," she said quietly. "You're never here."

A bird alighted from a branch nearby, distracting him. He looked up, following its flight. When he

looked back it was to find her watching him, her dark eyes chiding him.

"It's odd," he said, ignoring what she had said. "This place—it's changed so little over the years. I used

to play here as a child, ten, twelve years ago. And even then I imagined how it had been like this for

centuries. Unchanged. Unchanging. Only the normal cycle of the seasons. I'd help the servants pick the

apple crop, carrying empty baskets over to them. And then, later, I'd have quite insufferable bellyaches

from all the fruit I'd gorged." He laughed, seeing how her eyes had softened as he spoke. "Like any

child," he added after a moment, conscious of the lie, yet thinking of a past where it had really been so.

Back before the City, when such childish pleasures were commonplace.

For a moment longer he simply looked at her. Then, smiling, he squeezed her hand gently. "Come.

Let's go back."

On the bridge he paused and stood looking out across the lake, watching the swans moving on the

water, conscious of the warmth of her hand in his own.

"How long this time?" she asked, her voice softer, less insistent than before.

"A week," he said, turning to look at her. "Maybe longer. It depends on whether things keep quiet."

She smiled—the first smile she had given him in weeks. "That's good, Yuan. I'm tired of being alone. 1

had too much of it before."

He gave a single nod. "I know. But things will change. I promise you, Fei. It will be better from now

on."

She raised her chin, looking at him intently. "I hope so. It's so hard here on my own."

Hard? He looked across the placid lake toward the orchard, wondering what she meant. He saw only

softness here. Only respite from the harsh realities of life. From deals and duties. Smelled only the healthy

scents of growth.

He smiled and looked at her again. "I decided something, Fei. While I was away."

She looked back at him. "What's that?"

"The boy," he said, placing his hand on her swollen belly once more. "I've decided we'll call him Han."

LEHMANN WOKE HIM, then stood there while he dressed, waiting.

DeVore turned, lacing his tunic. "When did the news break?"

"Ten minutes ago. They've cleared all channels pending the announcement. Wei Feng is to speak."

DeVore raised an eyebrow. "Not Li Shai Tung?" He laughed. "Good. That shows how much we've

rattled him." He turned, glancing across the room at the timer on the wall, then looked back at Lehmann.

"Is that the time?"

Lehmann nodded.

DeVore looked down thoughtfully. It was almost four hours since the attacks. He had expected them

to react quicker than this. But that was not what was worrying him.

"Has Wiegand reported back?"

"Not yet."

DeVore went into the adjoining room. He sat in the chair, facing the big screen, his fingers brushing

the controls on the chair's arm to activate it. Lehmann came and stood behind him.

The Ywe Lung—the wheel of dragons, symbol of the seven—filled the screen as it did before every

official announcement; but this time the backdrop to the wheel was white, signifying death.

Throughout Chung Kuo, tens of billions would be sitting before their screens, waiting pensively,

speculating about the meaning of this break in regular programming. It had been a common feature of the

War-that-wasn't-a-War, but the screens had been empty of such announcements for some time. That

would give it added flavor.

He looked back at Lehmann. "When Wiegand calls in, have him switched through. I want to know

what's been going on. He should have reported back to me long before this."

"I've arranged it already."

"Good." He turned back, smiling, imagining the effect this was having on the Seven. They would be

scurrying about like termites into whose nest a great stick had just been poked; firing off orders here,

there, and everywhere; readying themselves against further attacks; not knowing where the next blow

might fall. Things had been quiet these last few months. Deliberately so, for he had wanted to lull the

Seven into a false sense of security before he struck. It was not the act itself but the context of the act

that mattered. In time of war, people's imaginations were dulled by a surfeit of tragedy, but in peacetime

such acts took on a dreadful significance. So it was now.

They would expect him to follow up—to strike again while they were in disarray—but this time he

wouldn't. Not immediately. He would let things settle before he struck again, choosing his targets

carefully, aiming always at maximizing the impact of his actions, allowing the Seven to spend their strength

fighting shadows while he gathered his. Until their nerves were raw and their will to fight crippled.

Then—and only then—would he throw his full strength against them.

He let his head fall back against the thick leather cushioning, relaxing for the first time in days, a sense

of well-being flooding through him. Victory would not come overnight, but then that was not his aim. His

was a patient game and time was on his side. Each year brought greater problems for Chung

Kuo—increased the weight of numbers that lay heavy on the back of government. He had only to wait,

like a dog harrying a great stag, nipping at the heels of the beast, weakening it, until it fell.

Martial music played from the speakers on either side of the screen. Then, abruptly, the image

changed. The face of Wei Feng, T'ang of East Asia, filled the screen, the old man's features lined with

sorrow.

"People of Chung Kuo, I have sad news. . ." he began, the very informality of his words unexpected,

the tears welling in the comers of the old man's eyes adding to the immense sense of wounded dignity that

emanated from him. DeVore sat forward, suddenly tense. What had gone wrong? He listened as Wei

Feng spoke of the tragedy that had befallen Bremen, watching the pictures dispassionately, waiting for

the old man to add something more—some further piece of news. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

And then Wei Feng was finished and the screen cleared, showing the Ywe Lung with its pure white

backdrop.

DeVore sat there a moment longer, then pulled himself up out of the chair, turning to face Lehmann.

"They didn't do it. The bastards didn't do it!"

He was about to say something more when the panel on his desk began to flash urgently. He switched

the call through, then turned, resting on the edge of the desk, facing the screen.

He had expected Wiegand. But it wasn't Wiegand's face that filled the screen. It was Hans Ebert.

"What in hell's name has been happening, Howard? I've just had to spend two hours with the Special

Investigation boys being grilled! Bremen, for the gods' sakes! The stupid bastards attacked Bremen!"

DeVore looked down momentarily. He had deliberately not told Ebert anything about their designs on

Bremen, knowing that Tolonen would screen all his highest-ranking officers—even his future

son-in-law—for knowledge of the attack. Caught out once that way, Tolonen's first thought would be

that he had once again been infiltrated at staff level. It did not surprise him, therefore, to learn that

Tolonen had acted so quickly. .-.; "I know," he said simply, meeting Ebert's eyes.

"What do you mean, you know? Were you involved in that?"

Ignoring Ebert's anger, he nodded, speaking softly, quickly, giving his reasons. But Ebert wasn't to be

placated so simply.

"I want a meeting," Ebert said, his eyes blazing. "Today! I want to know what else you've got

planned."

DeVore hesitated, not for the first time finding Ebert's manner deeply offensive, then nodded his

agreement. Ebert was too important to his plans just now. He needn't tell him everything, of course. Just

enough to give him the illusion of being trusted.

David Wingrove - Chung Kuo 3 - The White Mountain

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: