Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (81 page)

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ben LOOKED about
him at the rich decor of the anteroom and frowned. Such luxury was
unexpected at this low level. Added to the tightness of the security
screening it made him think that there must be some darker reason
than financial consideration for establishing the Melfi Clinic in
such an unusual setting.

The walls and
ceiling were an intense blue, while underfoot a matching carpet was
decorated with a simple yellow border. To one side stood a plinth on
which rested a bronze of a pregnant woman—
Hung Mao,
not
Han—her naked form the very archetype of fecundity. Across from
it hung the only painting in the room—a huge canvas, its
lightness standing out against the blue-black of the walls. It was an
oak, a giant oak, standing in the plush green of an ancient English
field.

In itself, the
painting was unsurprising, yet in context it was, again, unexpected.
Why this? he asked himself. Why here? He moved closer, then narrowed
his eyes, looking at the tiny acorn that lay in the left foreground
of the composition, trying to make out the two tiny initials that
were carved into it.

As. As what? he
thought, smiling, thinking of all those comparatives he had learned
as a very young child. As strong as an ox. As wily as a fox. As proud
as a peacock. As sturdy as an oak.

And as
long-lived. He stared at it, trying to make out its significance in
the scheme of things; then he turned, looking back at Meg. "You've
come here before?"

She nodded.
"Every six months."

"And
Mother? Does she come here, too?"

Meg laughed. "Of
course. The first time I came, I came with her."

He looked
surprised. "I didn't know."

"Don't
worry yourself, Ben. It's women's business, that's all. It's just
easier for them to do it all here than for them to come into the
Domain. Easier and less disruptive."

He nodded,
looking away, but he wasn't satisfied. There was something wrong with
all this. Something . . .

He turned as the
panel slid back and a man came through, a tall, rather heavily built
Han, his broad face strangely nondescript, his neat black hair swept
back from a polished brow. His full-length russet gown was trimmed
with a dark-green band of silk. As he came into the room he smiled
and rubbed his hands together nervously, giving a small bow of his
head to Meg before turning toward Ben.

"Forgive me
Shih
Shepherd, but we were not expecting you. I am the Senior
Consultant here, Tung T'an. If I had known that you planned to
accompany your sister, I would have suggested . . ." He
hesitated, then not sure he should continue, he smiled and bowed his
head. "Anyway, now that you
are
here, you had better come
through, neh?"

Ben stared back
at the Consultant, making him avert his eyes. The man was clearly put
out that he was there. But why should that be if this were a routine
matter? Why should his presence disturb things, even if this were
"women's business"?

"Meg,"
the Consultant said, turning to her. "It is good to see you
again. We expected you next week, of course, but no matter. It will
take us but a moment to prepare everything."

Ben frowned. But
she had said. . . He looked at her, his eyes demanding to know why
she hadn't told him that her appointment was not for another week,
but her look told him to be patient.

They followed
Tung T'an into a suite of rooms every bit as luxurious as the first.
Big, spacious rooms, decorated as if this were First Level, not the
Mids. Tung T'an tapped out a combination on a doorlock, then turned,
facing Ben again, more composed now.

"If you
would be kind enough to wait here,
Shih
Shepherd, we'll try
not to keep you too long. The tests are quite routine, but they take
a little time. In the meantime, is there anything one of my
assistants can bring you?"

"You want
me to wait out here?"

"Ben . . ."
Meg's eyes pleaded with him not to make trouble.

He smiled. "All
right. Perhaps you'd ask them to bring me a pot of coffee and a
newsfax."

The Consultant
smiled and turned to do as Ben asked, but Meg was looking at him
strangely now. She knew her brother well. Well enough to know he
never touched a newsfax.

"What are
you up to?" she whispered, as soon as Tung T'an was out of the
room.

He smiled, the
kind of innocuous-seeming smile that was enough to make alarm bells
start ringing in her head. "Nothing. I'm just looking after my
kid sister, that's all. Making sure she gets to the Clinic on time."

She looked down,
the evasiveness of the gesture not lost on Ben.

"I'll
explain it all, Ben. I promise I will. But not now." She glanced
up at him, then shook her head. "Look, I
promise.
Later.
But behave yourself while you're here. Please, Ben. I'll only be an
hour or so."

He relented,
smiling back at her. "Okay. I'll try to be good."

A young girl
brought him coffee and a pile of newsfax, then took Meg through to
get changed. Ben sat there for a time, pretending to look at the
nonsense on the page before him, all the while surreptitiously
looking around. As far as he could see he was not being observed. At
the outer gates security was tight, but here there was nothing. Why
was that? It was almost standard for companies to keep a tight watch
on their premises.

He stood up,
stretching, miming tiredness, then walked across the room, looking
closer at the walls, the vents, making sure. No. There was nothing.
It was almost certain that he wasn't being observed.

Good. Then he'd
delve a little deeper, answer a few of the questions that were
stacking up in his head.

He went out into
the corridor and made his way back to the junction. Doors led off to
either side. He stopped, listening. There was the faintest buzz of
voices to his right, but to his left there was nothing. He tried the
left-hand door, drawing the sliding door back in a single silent
movement. If challenged he would say he was looking for a toilet.

The tiny room
was empty. He slid the door closed behind him and looked around.
Again there seemed to be no cameras. As if they had no need for
.them. And yet they must, surely, if they had a regular clientele?

He crossed the
room with three quick paces and tried the door on the far side. It
too was open. Beyond was a long narrow room, brightly lit, the left
hand wall filled with filing cabinets.

Eureka!
he
thought, allowing himself a tiny smile. And yet it seemed strange,
very strange, that he should be able to gain access to their files so
easily. As if they weren't expecting anyone to try. His brow
wrinkled, trying to work it out; then he released the thought, moving
down the line of cabinets quickly, looking for the number he had
glimpsed on the card Meg had shown at the gates. He found it without
difficulty and tried the drawer. It opened at a touch.

Meg's file was
missing. Of course . . . they would have taken it with them. Like a
lot of private clinics most of the work was of a delicate nature, and
records were kept in this old-fashioned manner, the reports
handwritten by the consultants, no computer copy kept. Because it
would not do ...

He stopped,
astonished, noting the name on the file that lay beneath his
fingertips. A file that had a tiny acorn on the label next to the
familiar name.
Women's business. . .

And then he
laughed, softly, quietly, knowing now why Tung T'an had been so
flustered earlier.
They were here! They were all here!
He
flicked through quickly and found it. His file, handwritten like all
the rest, and containing his full medical record—including a
copy of his genetic chart.

He shivered, a
strange mixture of pain and elation coursing through his veins. It
was as he'd thought—Augustus
had
been right. Amos's
experiment was still going on.

He stared at the
genetic chart, matching it to the one he held in memory—the one
he had first seen in the back of his greatgrandfather's journal that
afternoon in the old house, the day he had lost his hand. The two
charts were identical.

He flicked
through the files again until he came across his father's. For a time
he was silent, scanning the pages, then he looked up, nodding to
himself. Here it was—confirmation. A small note, dated February
18, 2185. The date his father had been sterilized. Sterilized without
knowing it, on the pretext of a simple medical procedure.

A date roughly
five years before Ben had been bom.

He flicked
through again, looking now for his mother's file, then pulled it out.
He knew now where to look. Anticipated what it would say. Even so, he
was surprised by what he read.

The implant had
been made seven months before his birth, which meant that he had been
nurtured elsewhere for eight weeks before he had been placed in his
mother's womb. He touched his tongue to his teeth, finding the
thought of it strangely discomfiting. It made sense of course—by
eight weeks they could tell whether the embryo was healthy or
otherwise. His embryo would have been— what?—an inch long
by then. Limbs, fingers and toes, ears, nose, and mouth would have
formed. Yes. By eight weeks they would have been sure.

It made sense.
Of course it did. But the thought of himself, in a false uterus,
placed in a machine, disturbed him. He had always thought. . .

He let his hands
rest on the edge of the drawer, overcome suddenly by the reality of
what he had found. He had
known
—some part of him had
believed it ever since that day when he had looked at Augustus's
journal—even so, he had not been prepared. Not at core. It had
been head knowledge, detached from him. Until now. He shuddered. So
it was true. Hal was not his father, Hal was his brother. Like his
so-called great-great-grandfather Robert, his greatgrandfather
Augustus, and his grandfather James. Brothers, all of them. Every
last one of them seeds of the old man. Sons of Amos Shepherd and his
wife, Alexandra.

He flicked
through until he found her file, then laughed. Of course! He should
have known. The name of the clinic—Melfi. It was his
great-great-great grandmother's maiden name. No. His mothers maiden
name. Which meant. . .

He tried another
drawer. Again it opened to his touch, revealing the edges of files,
none of them marked with that important acorn symbol. And inside?
Inside the files were blank.

"It's all
of a piece," he said quietly, nodding to himself. All part of
the great illusion Amos built about him. Like the town in the Domain,
filled with its android replicants. Like the City his son had
designed to his order. All a great charade. A game to perpetuate his
seed, his ideas.

And this, here,
was the center of it. The place where Amos's great plan was carried
out. That was why it was hidden in the Mids. That was why security
was so tight outside and so lax within. No one else came here. No one
but the Shepherd women. To be tested, and when the time was right and
the scheme demanded it, to have Amos's children implanted into their
wombs. No wonder Tung T'an had been disturbed to see him here.

He turned,
hearing the door slide back behind him. It was Tung T'an.

"What in
hell's name . . . ?" The Consultant began, then fell silent,
seeing the open file on the drawer in front of Ben. He swallowed.
"You should not be in here,
Shih
Shepherd."

Ben laughed.
"No, I shouldn't. But I am."

The man took a
step toward him, then stopped, frowning, trying, without asking, to
ascertain how much Ben knew. "If you would leave now ..."

"Of course.
I've seen all I needed to see." The Han's face twitched. "You
misunderstand . . ."

Ben shook his
head. "Not at all, Tung T'an. You see, I knew. I've known for
some time. But not how. Or where. All this. . ." he indicated
the files. "It just confirms things for me."

"You
knew!"
Tung T'an laughed and shook his head. "Knew what,
Shih
Shepherd? There's nothing to know."

"As you
wish, Tung T'an."

He saw the
movement in the man's eyes, the assessment and reassessment. Then
Tung T'an gave a reluctant nod. "You were never meant to see any
of this. It is why—"

"Why you
kept the Shepherd males away from here." Ben smiled. "Wise.
To make it all seem unimportant. Women's business. But old Amos
wasn't quite so thorough here, was he?"

"I'm
sorry?"

Ben shook his
head. No, Tung T'an knew nothing of just how thorough Amos could be
when he wanted to. The old town was an example of that, complete down
to every last detail. But this—in a sense this was a
disappointment. It was almost as if. . .

He laughed, for
the first time seriously considering the idea. What if Amos had
wanted
one of them to discover all this? What if that, too,
were part of the plan—a kind of test?

The more he
thought of it, the more sense it made. The boarded-up old house, the
hidden room, the enclosed garden, the lost journal. None of them were
really necessary unless they were meant to act as clues—doors
to be passed through until the last door was opened, the final
revelation made. No. You did not preserve what you wished to conceal.
You destroyed it. And yet. . .

And yet he had
stumbled on this by accident. Coming here had not been his doing, it
had been Meg's. Unless . . .

She had come a
week early. Why? What reason could she have had for doing that. A
week. Surely it would have made no difference?

Tung T'an was
still staring at him. "You place me in an impossible situation,
Shih
Shepherd."

"Why so,
Shih
Tung? Think of it. You can't erase what I've seen, or
what I know. Not without destroying me. And you can't do that."
He laughed. "After all, it's what all of this here is dedicated
to preserving, isn't it? You have no other function."