Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (17 page)

He broke surface two body lengths from the older boy and kicked out for the steps.
He had to get out of the water.

Kim grabbed the metal rungs and hauled himself up, but he had not been quick enough.
Desperation and anger had made Matyas throw himself through the water, and as Kim’s
back foot lifted up
out of the water, Matyas lunged at it and caught the ankle. He was ill balanced in
the water and could not hold it, but it was enough. Tripped, Kim sprawled forward,
slamming his forearm painfully
against the wet floor and skidding across to the wall.

Kim lay there, stunned, then rolled over and sat up. Matyas was standing over him,
his teeth bared, eyes blazing, water running from him. In the water the others had
stopped fighting and were
watching.

‘You little cockroach,’ Matyas said, in a low, barely controlled voice. He jerked
forward and pulled Kim to his feet, one hand gripping Kim’s neck tightly, as if to
snap it.
‘I should kill you for what you’ve done. But I’ll not give you that satisfaction.
You deserve less than that.’

A huge shudder passed through Matyas. He pushed Kim down, onto his knees. Then, his
eyes never leaving Kim’s face, his other hand undid the cord to his trunks and drew
out his penis. As
they watched, it unfolded slowly, growing huge, engorged.

‘Kiss it,’ he said, his face cruel, his voice low but uncompromising.

Kim winced. Matyas’ fingers bit into his neck, forcing Kim’s face down into his groin.
For a brief moment he considered not resisting. Did it matter? Was it worth fighting
over such
a thing as face? Why not kiss Matyas’ prick and satisfy his sense of face? But the
thought was fleeting. Face
mattered
here. He could not bow to such as Matyas and retain the respect
of those he lived with. It would be the rod the other boys would use to beat him.
And beat him they would – mercilessly – if he capitulated now. He had not made these
callous, stupid
rules of behaviour, but he must live by them or be cast out.

‘I’d as soon bite it,’ he said hoarsely, forcing the words out past Matyas’ fingers.

There was laughter from the water. Matyas glared round, furious, then turned back
to Kim, yanking him up onto his feet. Anger made his hand shake as he lifted Kim off
the floor and turned,
holding him out over the water.

Kim saw in his eyes what Matyas intended. He would let him fall, then jump on him,
forcing him down, keeping him down, until he drowned.

It would be an accident. Even Anton and Josef would swear to the fact. That too was
how things were.

Kim tried to swallow, suddenly, unexpectedly afraid, but Matyas’ fingers pressed relentlessly
against his windpipe, making him choke.

‘Don’t, Matyas. Please don’t…’ It was Josef’s voice. But none of the boys made to
intercede. Things were out of their hands now.

Kim began to struggle, but Matyas tightened his grip, almost suffocating him. For
a moment Kim thought he had died – a great tide of blackness swept through his head
– then he was
falling.

He hit the water gasping for breath and went under. His chest was suddenly on fire.
His eyes seemed to pop. Pain lanced through his head like lightning. Then he surfaced,
coughing, choking,
flailing about in the water, and felt someone grab hold of him tightly. He began to
struggle, then convulsed, spears of heated iron ripping his chest apart. For a moment
the air seemed burnished a
dull gold, flecked with tiny beads of red and black. Lights danced momentarily on
the surface of his eyes, fizzling and popping like firecrackers, then the blackness
surged back – a great
sphere of blackness, closing in on him with the sound of great wings pulsing, beating
in his head…

And then there was nothing.

‘Have you heard about the boy?’

T’ai Cho looked up from his meal, then stood, giving the Director a small bow. ‘I’m
sorry,
Shih
Andersen. The boy?’

Andersen huffed impatiently, then glared at the other tutors so that they looked back
down at their meals. ‘The boy! Kim! Have you heard what happened to him?’

T’ai Cho felt himself go cold. He shook his head. He had been away all day on a training
course and had only just arrived back. There had been no time for anyone to tell him
anything.

Andersen hesitated, conscious of the other tutors listening. ‘In my office, T’ai Cho.
Now!’

T’ai Cho looked about the table, but there were only shrugs.

Andersen came to the point at once. ‘Kim was attacked. This morning, in the pool.’

T’ai Cho had gone cold. ‘Is he hurt?’

Andersen shook his head. He was clearly angry. ‘No. But it might have been worse.
He could have died. And where would we be then? It was only Shang Li-Yen’s prompt
action that saved
the boy.’

Shang Li-Yen was one of the tutors. Like all the tutors, part of his duties entailed
a surveillance stint. Apparently he had noted a camera malfunction in the pool area
and, rather than wait for
the repair crew, had gone to investigate.

‘What did Shang find?’

Andersen laughed bitterly. ‘Six boys sky-larking! What do you think? You know how
they are – they’d sooner die than inform on each other! But Shang thinks it was serious.
Matyas was involved. He was very agitated when Shang burst in on them; standing at
the poolside, breathing strangely, his face flushed. Kim was in the water nearby.
Only the quick actions of one of
the other boys got him out of the water.’ Anger flared in the Director’s eyes. ‘Fuck
it, T’ai Cho, Shang had to give him the kiss of life!’

‘Where is he now?’ T’ai Cho asked, trying to keep his emotions in check.

‘In his room. But let me finish. We had Kim examined and there were marks on his throat
and arms and on his right leg consistent with a fight. Matyas also had some minor
bruises. But both
boys claim they simply fell while playing in the pool. The other boys back them up,
but all six stories differ widely. It’s clear none of them is telling the truth.’

‘And you want me to try to find out what really happened?’

Andersen nodded. ‘If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can, T’ai Cho. Kim trusts
you. You’re like a father to him.’

T’ai Cho lowered his eyes, then shook his head. ‘Maybe so, but he’ll tell me nothing.
As you said, it’s how they are.’

Andersen was quiet a moment, then he leaned across his desk, his voice suddenly much
harder, colder than it had been. ‘Try anyway, T’ai Cho. Try hard. It’s important.
If Matyas
was to blame I want to know. Because if he was I want him out. Kim’s too important
to us. We’ve got too much invested in him.’

T’ai Cho rose from his seat and bowed, understanding perfectly. It wasn’t Kim – the
boy – Andersen was so concerned about, it was Kim-as-investment. Well, so be it. He
would use that in Kim’s favour.

Kim’s room was empty. T’ai Cho felt his stomach tighten, his pulse quicken. Then he
remembered. Of course. The film. Kim would have gone to see the film. He glanced
at his timer. It was just after ten. The film was almost finished. Kim would be back
in fifteen minutes.

He looked about the room, noting as ever what was new, what old. The third-century
portrait of the mathematician Liu Hui remained in its place of honour on the wall
above Kim’s terminal,
and on the top, beside the keyboard, lay Hui’s
Chiu Chang Suan Shu
, his ‘Nine Chapters On The Mathematical Art’. T’ai Cho smiled and opened its pages.
Kim’s
notations filled the margins. Like the book itself, they were in Mandarin, the tiny,
perfectly formed pictograms in red, black and green inks.

T’ai Cho flicked through inattentively and was about to close the book when one of
the notations caught his attention. It was right at the end of the book, amongst the
notes to the ninth
chapter. The notation itself was unremarkable – something to do with ellipses – but
beside it, in green, Kim had printed a name and two dates. Tycho Brahe. 1546 – 1601.

He frowned, wondering if the first name was a play on his own. But then, what did
the other mean? Bra He… It made no sense. And the dates? Or were they dates? Perhaps
they were a
code.

For a moment he hesitated, loath to pry, then set the book down and switched on the
terminal.

A search of the system’s central encyclopedia confirmed what he had believed. There
was no entry, either on Tycho or Brahe. Nothing. Not even on close variants of the
two names.

T’ai Cho sat there a moment, his fingers resting lightly on the keys, a vague suspicion
forming in his head.

He shook his head. No. It wasn’t possible, surely? The terminal in T’ai Cho’s room
was secretly ‘twinned’ with Kim’s. Everything Kim did on his terminal was
available to T’ai Cho. Everything. Work files, diary, jottings, even his messages
to the other boys. It seemed sneaky, but it was necessary. There was no other way
of keeping up with Kim. His
interests were too wide ranging, too quicksilver to keep track of any other way. It
was their only means of controlling him – of anticipating his needs and planning ahead.

But what if?

T’ai Cho typed his query quickly, then sat back.

The answer appeared on the screen at once.

‘SUB-CODE?’

T’ai Cho leaned forward and typed in the dates, careful to include the spacing and
the dash.

There was the briefest hesitation, then the file came up. ‘BRAHE, Tycho.’ T’ai Cho
scanned it quickly. It was a summary of the man’s life and achievements in the manner
of a genuine encyclopedia entry.

T’ai Cho sat back again, astonished, then laughed, remembering the time long before
when Kim had removed the lock from his cell without their knowing.
And so again,
he thought. But
this was much subtler, much more clever than the simple removal of a lock. This was
on a wholly different level of evasiveness.

He read the passage through, pausing thoughtfully at the final line, then cleared
the file and switched the terminal off. For a moment he sat there, staring sightlessly
at the screen, then he
stood up and moved away from the terminal.

‘T’ai Cho?’

He turned with a start. Kim was standing in the doorway, clearly surprised to see
him. He seemed much quieter than normal, on his guard. There was an eri-silk scarf
around his neck and his wrist
was bandaged. He made no move to come into the room.

T’ai Cho smiled and sat down on the bed. ‘How was the film?’

Kim smiled briefly, unenthusiastically. ‘No surprises,’ he said after a moment. ‘Pan
Chao was triumphant. As ever.’

T’ai Cho saw the boy look across at the terminal, then back at him, but there was
no sign that Kim had seen what he’d been doing.

‘Come here,’ he said gently. ‘Come and sit with me, Kim. We need to talk.’

Kim hesitated, understanding at once why T’ai Cho had come. Then he shook his head.
‘Nothing happened this morning.’

‘Nothing?’ T’ai Cho looked deliberately at the scarf, the bandage.

Kim smiled but said nothing.

‘Okay. But it doesn’t matter. We already know what happened. There’s a hidden camera
in the ceiling of the pool. One Matyas overlooked when he sabotaged the others. We
saw him
attack you. Saw him grab you by the throat, then try to drown you.’

Still Kim said nothing, gave nothing away.

T’ai Cho shrugged then looked down, wondering how closely the scenario fitted. Was
Kim quiet because it was true? Or was he quiet because it had happened otherwise?
Whichever, he was
certain of one thing. Matyas
had
attacked Kim. He had seen for himself the jealous envy in the older boy’s eyes. But
he had never dreamed it would come to this.

He stood up, inwardly disturbed by this side of Kim. This primitive, savage side that
all the Clayborn seemed to have. He had never understood this aspect of their behaviour:
this perverse
tribal solidarity of theirs. Where they came from it was a strength, no doubt – a
survival factor – but up here, in the Above, it was a failing, a fatal flaw.

‘You’re important, Kim. Very important. You know that, don’t you? And Matyas should
have known better. He’s out for what he did.’

Kim looked down. ‘Matyas did nothing. It was an accident.’

T’ai Cho took a deep breath, then stood and went across to him. ‘As you say, Kim.
But we know otherwise.’

Kim looked up at him, meeting his eyes coldly. ‘Is that all?’

That too was unlike Kim. That hardness. Perhaps the experience had shaken him. Changed
him in some small way. For a moment T’ai Cho studied him, wondering whether he should
bring up the
matter of the secret files, then decided not to. He would investigate them first.
Find out what Kim was up to. Then, and only then, would he confront him.

He smiled and looked away. ‘That’s all.’

Back in his room T’ai Cho locked his door, then began to summon up the files, beginning
with the master file, referred to in the last line of the BRAHE.

The Aristotle File
.

The name intrigued him, because, unlike Brahe, there had been an Aristotle: a minor
Greek philosopher of the fourth century
BC
. He checked the entry briefly on the general encyclopedia. There
was less than a hundred and fifty words on the man. Like T’ai Cho, he had been a tutor,
in his case to the Greek King, Alexander. As to the originality of his thinking, he
appeared to be on a
par with Hui Shih, a contemporary Han logician who had stressed the relativity of
time and space and had sought to prove the existence of the ‘Great One Of All Things’
through rational
knowledge. Now, however, both men existed only as tiny footnotes in the history of
science. Greece had been conquered by Rome and Rome by the Han. And the Han had abandoned
the path of pure logic
with Hui Shih.

T’ai Cho typed in the three words, then leaned back. The answer appeared on the screen
at once.

‘SUB-CODE?’

He took a guess. ALEXANDER, he typed, then sat back with a laugh as the computer accepted
the codeword.