The Broken Wheel Read online

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. ‘Why? 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, Levelling, 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 some things are known for certain. Bremen Central Maintenance report 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 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 got out. They’d blown the transit and derailed the bolt. All the inter-level 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 Tiao 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 the traitor is 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 Tiao 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. You, at least, I 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.’

  At that moment, on the far side of the world, Li Yuan was walking down a path on the estate in Tongjiang. He could smell the blossom in the air, apple and plum, and beneath those the sharper, sweeter scent of cherry. It reminded him of how much time had passed 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 towards the lake. He smiled, seeing her, there on the far side of the lake, walking between the trees. For a moment he simply looked, his heart quickening just to see her, then he went down, taking the steps in twos and threes.

  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.

  No, not forgotten. Simply not remembered.

  He laughed softly. ‘How far along are you?’

  ‘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?’ He stared 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 upwards, 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 h
er face was still turned away.

  ‘I never see you,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re never here.’

  A bird alighted from a branch nearby. 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 belly-aches 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 he simply looked at her. Then, smiling, he squeezed her hand gently. ‘Come. Let’s go back.’

  On the bridge he paused and stood there, 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. I’m tired of being alone. I had too much of it before.’

  ‘I know. But things will change. I promise you, Fei. It will be better from now on.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s so hard here on my own.’

  Hard? He looked across the placid lake towards 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 back. 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 and 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. So 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 while. That would give it added flavour.

  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 here.

  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 corners 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 done 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 that of 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.

  ‘Okay. This afternoon,’ DeVore said, betraying nothing of his thoughts. ‘At Mu Chua’s. I�
�ll see you there, Hans. After fourth bell.’

  He broke contact, then sat back.

  ‘Damn him!’ he said, worried that he had still heard nothing. He turned. ‘Stefan! Find out where the hell Wiegand is. I want to know what’s been happening.’

  He watched the albino go, then looked about the room, his sense of well-being replaced by a growing certainty.

  Lehmann confirmed it moments later. ‘Wiegand’s dead,’ he said, coming back into the room. ‘Along with another fifty of our men and more than a hundred and fifty Ping Tiao.’

  DeVore sat down heavily. ‘What happened?’

  Lehmann shook his head. ‘That’s all we know. We’ve intercepted Security reports from the Poznan and Krakov garrisons. It looks like they knew we were coming.’

  DeVore looked down. Gods! Then the harvest was untouched, City Europe’s vast granaries still intact. He could not have had worse news.

  He shuddered. This changed things dramatically. What had been designed to weaken the Seven had served only to make them more determined.

  He had known all along what the probable effect of a single strike against Bremen would have. Had known how outraged people would be by the assault on the soldiers’ living quarters – the killing of innocent women and children. That was why he had planned the two things to hit them at the same time. With the East European Plantations on fire and the safe haven of Bremen breached, he had expected to sow the seeds of fear in City Europe. But fear had turned to anger, and what ought to have been a devastating psychological blow for the Seven had been transformed into its opposite.

  No wonder Wei Feng had spoken as he had. That sense of great moral indignation the old man had conveyed had been deeply felt. And there was no doubting that the watching billions would have shared it. So now the Seven had the support of the masses of Chung Kuo. Sanction, if they wanted it, to take whatever measures they wished against their enemies.

  DeVore sighed and looked down at his hands. No. Things could not have turned out worse.

  But how? How had they known? Despair turned to sudden anger in him. He stood abruptly. Wiegand! It had to be Wiegand! Which meant that the report of his death was false; a fabrication put out for them to overhear. Which meant…