Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (18 page)

There was a brief pause, then the title page came up on the screen.

Four hours later, at three bells, he got up from his seat and went to relieve himself.
He had set the machine to print and had sat there, reading the copy as it emerged
from the machine. There
were more than two hundred pages of copy in the tray by now and the file was not yet
exhausted.

T’ai Cho went through to the kitchen, the faint buzz of the printer momentarily silenced,
and put on a kettle of
ch’a
, then went back out and stood there by the terminal,
watching the paper spill out slowly.

It was astonishing. Kim had invented a whole history; a fabulously rich, incredibly
inventive history. So rich that at times it seemed almost real. All that about the
Catholic Church suppressing
knowledge and the great Renaissance – was that the word? – that split Europe into
two camps. Oh, it was wild fantasy, of course, but there was a ring of truth – of
universality
– behind it that gave it great authority.

T’ai Cho laughed. ‘So that’s what you’ve been up to in your spare time,’ he said softly.
Yes, it made sense now. Kim had been busy reshaping the world in his own
image – had made the past the mirror of his own logical, intensely curious self.

But it had not been like that. Pan Chao had conquered
T
a Ts
’
in
. Rome had fallen. And not as Kim had portrayed it, to Alaric and the Goths in the
fifth century, but to the
Han in the first. There had been no break in order, no decline into darkness. No Dark
Ages and no Christianity – Oh, and what a lovely idea
that
was: organized religion! The thought of
it…

He bent down and took the last few sheets from the stack. Kim’s tale had reached the
twentieth century now. A century of war and large-scale atrocity. A century in which
scientific
‘progress’ had become a headlong flight. He glanced down the highlighted names on
the page – Röntgen, Planck, Curie, Einstein, Bohr, Heisenberg, Baird, Schrödinger
– recognizing none of them. Each had its own sub-file, like the BRAHE. And each, he
knew, would prove consistent with the larger picture.

‘Remarkable!’ he said softly, reading a passage about the development of radio and
television. In Kim’s version they had appeared only in the twentieth century – a good
three centuries after the Han had really invented them. It was through such touches
– by arresting some developments and accelerating others – that Kim made his story
live. In his
version of events, Han science had stagnated by the fourth century
AD
, and Chung Kuo had grown insular, until, in the nineteenth century, the Europeans
– and what a strange, alien ring that
phrase had; not
Hung Mao
, but ‘Europeans’ – had kicked the rotten door of China in.

Ah, and that too. Not Chung Kuo. Kim called it China. As if it had been named after
the First Emperor’s people, the Ch’in. Ridiculous! And yet, somehow, strangely convincing,
too.

T’ai Cho sat back, rubbing his eyes, the sweet scent of the brewing
ch’a
slowly filling the room. Yes, much of it was ridiculous. A total fantasy – like the
strange idea
of Latin, the language of the
Ta Ts’in
, persisting fifteen hundred years after the fall of their Empire. For a moment he
thought of that old, dead language persisting through the
centuries by means of that great paradox, the Church – at one and the same time the
great defender and destroyer of knowledge – and knew such a world as the one Kim had
dreamed up was a
pure impossibility. A twisted dream of things.

While the printer hummed and buzzed, T’ai Cho examined his feelings. There was much
to admire in Kim’s fable. It spoke of a strong, inventive mind, able to grasp and
use broad
concepts. But beyond that there was something problematic about what Kim had done
– something that troubled T’ai Cho greatly.

What disturbed him most was Kim’s reinterpretation of the Ch’ing or, as Kim called
it, the Manchu period. There, in his notion of a vigorous, progressive West and a
decadent, static
East was the seed of all else. That was his starting point: the focus from which all
else radiated out, like some insidious disease, transforming whatever it touched.
Kim had not simply changed
history, he had inverted it. Turned black into white, white into black. It was clever,
yes, but it was also somehow diabolical.

T’ai Cho shook his head and stood up, pained by his thoughts. On the surface the whole
thing seemed the product of Kim’s brighter side; a great edifice of shining intellect;
a work
of considerable erudition and remarkable imaginative powers. Yet in truth it was the
expression of Kim’s darker self; a curiously distorted image; envious, almost malicious.

Is this how he sees us?
T’ai Cho wondered.
Is this how the Han appear to him?

It pained him deeply, for
he
was Han; the product of the world Kim so obviously despised. The world he would replace
with his own dark fantasy.

T’ai Cho shuddered and stood up, then went out and switched off the
ch’a. No more
, he thought, hearing the printer pause, then beep three times – signal that it had
finished printing. No, he would show this to Director Andersen. See what the
Hung Mao
in charge made of it. And then what?

Then I’ll ask him
, T’ai Cho thought, switching off the light. Y
es. I’ll ask Kim
why.

The next morning he stood before the Director in his office, the file in a folder
under his arm.

‘Well, T’ai Cho? What did you find out from him?’

T’ai Cho hesitated. He knew Andersen meant the matter of the fight between Kim and
Matyas, yet for a moment he was tempted to ignore that and simply hand him the folder.

‘It was as I said. Kim denies there was a fight. He says Matyas was not to blame.’

Andersen made a noise of disbelief, then, placing both hands firmly on the desk, leaned
forward, an unexpected smile lighting his features.

‘Never mind. I’ve solved the problem anyway. I’ve got RadTek to take Matyas a month
early. We’ve had to provide insurance cover for the first month – while
he’s under age – but it’s worth it if it keeps him from killing Kim, neh?’

T’ai Cho looked down. He should have guessed Andersen would be ahead of him. But for
once he could take him by surprise.

‘Good. But there’s something else.’

‘Something else?’

T’ai Cho held out the folder.

Andersen took the folder and opened it. ‘Cumbersome,’ he said, his face crinkling
with distaste. He was the kind of administrator who hated paperwork. Head-Slot spoken
summaries were
more his thing. But in this instance there was no alternative: a summary of the Aristotle
File could not possibly have conveyed its richness, let alone its scope.

Andersen read the title page, then looked up at T’ai Cho. ‘What is this? Some kind
of joke?’

‘No. It’s something Kim put together.’

Andersen looked back down at the document, leafing through a few pages, then stopped,
his attention caught by something he had glimpsed. ‘You knew about this?’

‘Not until last night.’

Andersen looked up sharply. Then he gave a tiny little nod, seeing what it implied.
‘How did he keep the files hidden?’

T’ai Cho shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I thought it was something you might want
to investigate.’

Andersen considered a moment. ‘Yes. It has wider implications. If Kim can keep files
secret from a copycat system…’ He looked back down at the stack of paper. ‘What
exactly is this, T’ai Cho? I assume you’ve read it?’

‘Yes. But as to what it is… I suppose you might call it an alternative history. Chung
Kuo as it might have been had the Ta Ts’in legions won the Battle of Kazatin.’

Andersen laughed. ‘An interesting idea. Wasn’t that in the film they showed last night?’

T’ai Cho nodded, suddenly remembering Kim’s words. ‘
Pan Chao was triumphant. As ever.’
In Kim’s version of things Pan Chao had never crossed the Caspian.
There had been no Battle of Kazatin. Instead, Pan Chao had met the
Ta Ts’in
legate and signed a pact of friendship. An act which, eighteen centuries later, had
led to the collapse of
the Han Empire at the hands of a few ‘Europeans’ with superior technology.

‘There’s more, much more, but the drift of it is that the West – the
Hung Mao
– got to rule the world, not the Han.’

The Director turned a few more pages, then frowned. ‘Why should he want to invent
such stuff? What’s the point of it?’

‘As an exercise, maybe? A game to stretch his intellect?’

Andersen looked up at him again. ‘Hmm. I like that. It’s good to see him exercising
his mind. But as to the idea itself…’ He closed the file and pushed it aside.
‘Let’s monitor it, neh, T’ai Cho? See it doesn’t get out of hand and take up too much
time. I’d say it was harmless enough, wouldn’t you?’

T’ai Cho was about to disagree, but saw the look in Andersen’s eyes. He was not interested
in pursuing the matter. Set against the business of safeguarding his investment it
was of
trivial importance. T’ai Cho nodded and made to retrieve the file.

‘No. Leave it with me, T’ai Cho.
Shih
Berdichev is calling on me tomorrow. The file might amuse him.’

T’ai Cho backed away and made as if to leave, but Andersen called him back.

‘One last thing.’

‘Yes, Director?’

‘I’ve decided to bring forward Kim’s socialization. He’s to start in the Casting Shop
tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? Don’t you think… ?’ He was about to say he thought Kim too young, but saw
that Andersen was looking at him again, that same expression in his eyes.
I have
decided,
it said.
There is to be no argument
. T’ai Cho swallowed, then bowed. ‘Very well,
Shih
Andersen. Should I make arrangements?’

Andersen smiled. ‘No. It’s all been taken care of. My secretary will give you the
details before you leave.’

T’ai Cho bowed again, humbled, then backed away.

‘And T’ai Cho…’

‘Yes, Director?’

‘You’ll say nothing of this file to anyone, understand?’

T’ai Cho bowed low. ‘Of course.’

For a moment Kim studied the rust-coloured scholar’s garment T’ai Cho had given him,
then he looked back at his tutor. ‘What’s this?’

T’ai Cho busied himself, clearing out his desk. ‘It’s your work
pau
.’

‘Work? What kind of work?’

Still T’ai Cho refused to look at him. ‘You begin this morning. In the Casting Shop.’

Kim was silent a moment, then, slowly, he nodded. ‘I see.’ He shrugged out of his
one-piece and pulled the loose-fitting
pau
over his head. It was a simple, long-sleeved
pau
with a chest-patch giving the Project’s name in pale green pictograms and, beneath
that, in smaller symbols, Kim’s ownership details – the contract number and the
SimFic symbol.

T’ai Cho looked fleetingly across at him. ‘Good. You’ll be going there every day from
now on. From eight until twelve. Your normal classes will be shifted to the
afternoon.’

He had expected Kim to complain – the new arrangements would cost him two hours of
his free time every day – but Kim gave no sign. He simply nodded.

‘Why are you clearing your desk?’

T’ai Cho paused. The anger he had felt on finishing the Aristotle File had diminished
somewhat, but still he felt resentful towards the boy. He had thought he knew him.
But he had been
wrong. The File had proved him wrong. Kim had betrayed him. His friendliness was like
the tampered lock, the hidden files – a deception. The boy was Clayborn and the Clayborn
were cunning by
nature. He should have known that. Even so, it hurt to be proved wrong. Hurt like
nothing he had felt in years.

‘I’m asking to be reposted.’

Kim was watching him intently. ‘Why?’

‘Does it matter?’ He could not keep the bitterness from his voice, yet when he turned
and looked at Kim he was surprised to see how shocked, how hurt the boy was.

Kim’s voice was small, strangely vulnerable. ‘Is it because of the fight?’

T’ai Cho looked down, pursing his lips. ‘There was no fight, Kim. You told me that.’

‘No.’ The word was barely audible.

T’ai Cho looked up. The boy was looking away from him now, his head slightly turned
to the right. For a moment he was struck by how cruel he was being, not explaining
why he was going.
Surely the child deserved that much? Then, as he watched, a tear formed in Kim’s left
eye and slowly trickled down his cheek.

He had never seen Kim cry. Neither, he realized, had he ever really thought of him
as a child. Not as a true child, anyway. Now, as he stood there, T’ai Cho saw him
properly for the first
time. Saw how fragile Kim was. A nine-year-old boy, that was all he was. An orphan.
And all the family Kim had in the world was himself.

He closed the desk, then went across and knelt at Kim’s side. ‘You want to know why?’

Kim could not look at him. He nodded. Another tear rolled slowly down his cheek. His
voice was small and hurt. ‘I don’t understand, T’ai Cho. What have I done?’

For a moment T’ai Cho was silent. He had expected Kim to be cold, indifferent to his
news. But this? He felt his indignation melt and dissipate like breath, then reached
out and held the
boy to him fiercely.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You’ve done nothing.’