Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (5 page)

‘He did this?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘There are one hundred and eighty cross-sectional layers of information.
Ninety horizontal, ninety vertical. He hand drew each sheet and then compressed them.
It’s
his own technique. He invented it.’

‘Hand drew… ?’

And from memory. Beth wouldn’t sit for him, you see. She said she was too busy. But
he did it anyway.’

Li Shai Tung shook his head slowly. ‘It’s astonishing, Hal. It’s like a camera image
of her.’

‘You haven’t seen the half of it. Wait…’ Shepherd switched the hologram off, then
reached in and lifted the flexible plate up. He turned it and set it down again.
‘Please…’

The T’ang reached out and pressed the switch. Again the viewing cage was filled with
colour. But this time the image was different.

The hologram of Hal Shepherd was far from flattering. The flesh was far cruder, much
rougher than the reality, the cheeks ruddier. The hair was thicker, curlier, the eyebrows
heavier and darker.
The nose was thick and fleshy, the ears pointed, the eyes larger, darker. The lips
were more sensual than the original, almost licentious. They seemed to sneer.

Shepherd moved closer and looked down into the viewer. ‘There’s something of the satyr
about it. Something elemental.’

The T’ang turned his head and looked at him, not understanding the allusion.

Shepherd laughed. ‘It was a Greek thing, Shai Tung. In their mythology satyrs were
elementary spirits of the mountains and the forests. Part-goat, part-man. Cloven-hooved,
thickly-haired,
sensual and lascivious.’

Li Shai Tung stared at the urbane, highly sophisticated man standing at his side and
laughed briefly, bemused that Shepherd could see himself in that brutal portrait.
‘I can see a slight
likeness. Something in the eyes, the shape of the head, but…’

Shepherd shook his head slowly. He was staring at the hologram intently. ‘No. Look
at it, Shai Tung. Look hard at it. He sees me clearly. My inner self

Li Shai Tung shivered. ‘The gods help us that our sons should see us thus!’

Shepherd turned and looked at him. ‘Why? Why should we fear that, old friend? We know
what we are. Men. Part mind, part animal. Why should we be afraid of that?’

The T’ang pointed to the image. ‘Men, yes. But men like that? You really see yourself
in such an image, Hal?’

Shepherd smiled. ‘It’s not the all of me, I know, but it’s a part. An important part.’

Li Shai Tung shrugged – the slightest movement of his shoulders – then looked back
at the image. ‘But why is the other as it is? Why aren’t both alike?’

‘Ben has a wicked sense of humour.’

Again the T’ang did not understand, but this time Shepherd made no attempt to enlighten
him.

Li Shai Tung studied the hologram a moment longer then turned from it, looking all
about him. ‘He gets such talent from you, Hal.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I never had a tenth of his ability. Anyway, even the word
“talent” is unsatisfactory. What he has is genius. In that he’s like his
great-great-grandfather.’

The T’ang smiled at that, remembering his father’s tales of Augustus Shepherd’s eccentricity.
‘Perhaps. But let us hope that that is all he has inherited.’

He knew at once that he had said the wrong thing. Or, if not the wrong thing, then
something that touched upon a sensitive area.

‘The resemblance is more than casual.’

The T’ang lowered his head slightly, willing to drop the matter at once, but Shepherd
seemed anxious to explain. ‘Ben’s schizophrenic too, you see. Oh, nothing as bad as
Augustus. But it creates certain incongruities in his character.’

Li Shai Tung looked back at the pictures above the bed with new understanding. ‘But
from what you’ve said the boy is healthy enough.’

‘Even happy, I’d say. Most of the time. He has bouts of it, you understand. Then we
either dose him up heavily or leave him alone.’

Shepherd leaned across and switched off the viewer, then lifted the thin black sheet
and slipped it back into the folder. ‘They used to think schizophrenia was a simple
malfunction of the
brain; an imbalance in certain chemicals – dopamine, glutamic acid and gamma-amino-butyric
acid. Drugs like largactil, modecate, disipal, priadel and haloperidol were used,
mainly as
tranquillizers. But they simply kept the thing in check and had the side-effect of
enlarging the dopamine system. Worst of all, at least as far as Ben is concerned,
they damp down the creative
faculty.’

The T’ang frowned. Medicine, like all else, was based on traditional Han ways. The
development of Western drugs, like Western ideas of progress, had been abandoned when
Tsao Ch’un
had built his City. Many such drugs were, in fact, illicit now. One heard of them,
normally, only in the context of addiction – something that was rife in the lowest
levels of the City.
Nowadays all serious conditions were diagnosed before the child was born and steps
taken either to correct them or to abort the foetus. It thus surprised him, first
to hear that Ben’s illness
had not been diagnosed beforehand, second that he had even considered taking drugs
to keep the illness in check.

‘He has not taken these drugs, I hope.’

Shepherd met his eyes. ‘Not only has but still does. Except when he’s working.’

The T’ang sighed deeply. ‘You should have told me, Hal. I shall arrange for my herbalist
to call on Ben within the next few days.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I thank you, Shai Tung. Your kindness touches me. But it
would do no good.’

‘No good?’ The T’ang frowned, puzzled. ‘But there are numerous sedatives – things
to calm the spirit and restore the body’s yin-yang balance. Good, healthy
remedies, not these… drugs!’

‘I know, Shai Tung, and again I thank you for your concern. But Ben would have none
of it. Oh, I can see him now – “Dragon bones and oyster shells!” he’d say
scornfully. “What good are they against this affliction?”’

The T’ang looked down, disturbed. In this matter he could not insist. The birthright
of the Shepherds made them immune from the laws that governed others. If Ben took
drugs to maintain his
mental stability there was little he, Li Shai Tung, could do about it. Even so, he
could not stop himself from feeling it was wrong. He changed the subject.

‘Is he a good son, Hal?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘He is the best of sons, Shai Tung. Like Li Yuan, his respect is
not a matter of rote, as it is with some of this new generation, but a deep-rooted
thing. And as
you’ve seen, it stems from a thorough knowledge of his father.’

The T’ang nodded, leaving his doubts unexpressed. ‘Good. But you are right, Hal. These
past few years have seen a sharp decline in morality. The li – the rites – they
mean little now. The young mouth the old words but they mean nothing by them. Their
respect is an empty shell. We are fortunate, you and I, that we have good sons.’

‘Indeed. Though Ben can be a pompous, intolerant little sod at times. He has no time
for fools. And little enough for cleverness, if you see what I mean. He loathes his
machine-tutor, for
instance.’

Li Shai Tung raised his eyebrows. ‘That surprises me, Hal. I would have thought he
cherished knowledge. All this…’ he looked about him at the books and paintings and
machines
‘…it speaks of a love of knowledge.’

Shepherd smiled strangely. ‘Perhaps you should talk to him yourself, Shai Tung.’

The T’ang smiled. ‘Perhaps I should.’

Now, watching the boy across the length of the dinner table, he understood.

‘What do you think, Ben? Do you think the time has come to fight our enemies?’

Unexpectedly, the boy laughed. ‘That depends on whether you know who or what your
enemies are.’

The T’ang lifted his chin slightly. ‘I think I have a fair idea.’

Ben met his eyes again, fixing that same penetrating stare on him. ‘Maybe. But you
must first ask yourself what exactly you are fighting against. When you think of your
enemies your first
thought is of certain identifiable men and groups of men, is that not so?’

The T’ang nodded. ‘That is so, Ben. I know my enemies. I can put names to them and
faces.’

‘There, you see. And you think that by waging war against them you will resolve this
present situation.’ Ben set his bowl down and sat back, his every gesture momentarily
–
though none but Ben himself realized it – the mirror image of the T’ang’s. ‘With respect,
Li Shai Tung, you are wrong.’

The T’ang laughed fiercely, enjoying the exchange. ‘You think their ideology will
outlive them? Is that it, Ben? If it were not so false in the first place, I would
agree with you.
But their sole motivation is greed. They don’t really want change. They want power.’

Ben shook his head. ‘Ah, but you’re still thinking of specific men. Powerful men,
admittedly, even men of influence, but only men. Men won’t bring Chung Kuo down, only
what’s inside Man. You should free yourself from thinking of them. To you they seem
the greatest threat, but they’re not. They’re the scum on the surface of the well.
And the well
is deep.’

Li Shai Tung took a deep breath. ‘With respect, Ben, in this you are wrong. Your argument
presupposes that it does not matter who rules – that things will remain as they are
whoever
is in power. But that’s not so. Their ideology is false, but, forgive me, they are
Hung Mao
.’

Across from him Hal Shepherd smiled, but he was clearly embarrassed. It was more than
two decades since he had taken offence at the term – a term used all the while in
court, where the Han
were predominant and the few Caucasians treated as honorary Han – yet here, in the
Domain, he felt the words incongruous, almost – surprisingly – insulting.

‘They have no sense of harmony,’ continued the T’ang, unaware. ‘No sense of
li
. Any change they brought would not be for the good. They are men of few principles.
They would carve the world up into principalities and then there would be war again.
Endless war. As it was before.’

There was the faintest of smiles on Ben’s lips. ‘You forget your own history, Li Shai
Tung. No dynasty can last forever. The wheel turns. Change comes, whether you will
it or no. It
is the way of Mankind. All of Mankind, even the Han.’

‘So it may have been, but things are different now. The wheel no longer turns. We
have done with history.’

Ben laughed. ‘But you cannot stop the world from turning!’

He was about to say more but his mother touched his arm. She had sat there, perfectly
still and silent, watching the fire while they talked, her dark hair hiding her face.
Now she smiled and got
up, excusing herself.

‘Perhaps you men would like to go through into the study. I’ve lit the fire there.’

Shepherd looked to the T’ang, who gave the slightest nod of agreement before standing
and bowing to his hostess. Again he thanked her warmly for the meal and her hospitality,
then, when
she had gone, went before Shepherd and his son into the other room.

‘Brandy?’ Shepherd turned from the wall cabinet, holding the decanter up. The T’ang
was usually abstemious, but tonight his mood seemed different. He seemed to want to
talk
– to encourage talk. As if there were some real end to all this talking: some problem
which, though he hadn’t come to it, he wished to address. Something he found difficult;
that
worried him profoundly.

The T’ang hesitated, then smiled. ‘Why not? After all, a man ought to indulge himself
now and then.’

Shepherd poured the T’ang a fingernail’s measure of the dark liquid and handed him
the ancient bowled glass. Then he turned to his son. ‘Ben?’

Ben smiled almost boyishly. Are you sure mother won’t mind?’

Shepherd winked at him. ‘Mother won’t know.’

He handed the boy a glass, then poured one for himself and sat, facing the T’ang across
the fire. Maybe it was time to force the pace; time to draw the T’ang out of himself.

‘Something’s troubling you, Shai Tung.’

The T’ang looked up from his glass almost distractedly and gave a soft laugh. ‘Everything
troubles me, Hal. But that’s not what you mean, is it?’

‘No. No visit of yours is casual, Shai Tung. You had a specific reason for coming
to see me.’

The T’ang’s smile was filled with gratitude. ‘As ever, Hal, you’re right. But I’ll
need no excuse to come next time. I’ve found this very pleasant.’

‘Well?’

The T’ang took a long inward breath, steeling himself, then spoke. ‘It’s Tolonen.’

For some time now the T’ang had been under intense pressure from the House to bring
the General to trial for the murder of Under Secretary Lehmann. They wanted Tolonen’s
head for
what he’d done. But the T’ang had kept his thoughts to himself about the killing.
No one – not the Seven or Hal Shepherd – knew how he really felt about the matter,
only
that he had refused to see Tolonen since that day; that he had exiled him immediately
and appointed a new General, Vittorio Nocenzi, in his place.

Shepherd waited, conscious of how tense Li Shai Tung had suddenly become. Tolonen
had been of the same generation as the T’ang and they shared the same unspoken values.
In their personal
lives there had been parallels that had drawn them close and formed a bond between
them; not least the loss of both their wives some ten years back. In temperament,
however, they were ice and
fire.

‘I miss him. Do you understand that, Hal? I really miss the old devil. First and foremost
for himself. For all that he was. Loyal. Honest. Brave.’ He looked up briefly, then
looked
down again, his eyes misting. ‘I felt he was my champion, Hal. Always there at my
side. From my eighteenth year. My General. My most trusted man.’

He shuddered and was silent for a while. Then he began again, his voice softer, yet
somehow stronger, more definite than before.

‘Strangely I miss his rashness most of all. He was like Han Ch’in in that. What he
said was always what part of me felt. Now I feel almost that that part of me is missing
– is
unexpressed, festering in the darkness.’