An Inch of Ashes (Chung Kuo)(26)

‘No. I don't want to go running to Prince Yuan every time I've a problem.'

T'ai Cho turned angrily. ‘But you must. The Prince will have Spatz removed. He'll-'

‘You don't see it, do you;Anthineque I&r, T'ai Cho? You think this is just a piece of pure science research, but it's not. I saw that at once. This is political. And very sensitive. Practically all of the men they've recruited for it are vulnerable. They were on the wrong side in the War and now they've no choice but to work on this. All except for Spatz, and he's no scientist. At least, not a good enough scientist to be on a project of this nature. He's here to keep a lid on things.'

‘But that's outrageous.'

‘Not at all. You see, someone wants this project to fail. That's why Spatz was made Administrator. Why Tolonen was appointed overall Head.'

‘And you'll allow that to happen?'

‘It's not up to me, T'ai Cho. I've no choice in the matter. I do as I'm told. As I've always done. But that's all right. There are plenty of things we can do. All that's asked of us is that we don't rock the boat.'

T'ai Cho was staring at him, his eyes narrowed. ‘That's not like you, Kim. To lie down and do nothing.'

Kim looked down. ‘Maybe it wasn't, in the past. But where did it ever get me?' He looked up again, his dark eyes searing T'ai Cho. ‘Five years of Socialization. Of brutal reconditioning. That was my reward for standing up for myself. But next time they won't bother. They'll just write me off.' He laughed bitterly. ‘I'm not even a citizen. I exist only because Li Yuan wills my existence. You heard him yourself, T'ai Cho. That's the fact of the matter. So don't lecture me about doing something. Things are easy here. Why make trouble for ourselves?'

T'ai Cho stared back at him, open-mouthed, hardly believing what he was hearing. ‘Well, you'd better go,' he said abruptly. ‘I've things to do.'

‘I'm sorry, T'ai Cho. I...'

But T'ai Cho was busying himself, putting clothes into a drawer.

‘I'll see you later, then?' Kim asked, but T'ai Cho made no sign that he had even heard.

Back in his room Kim went to the desk and sat there, the first of the poems Hammond had written on the screen in front of him.

It had not been easy, making T'ai Cho believe he had given up. It had hurt to disillusion his old tutor, but it was necessary. If he was to function at all in this set-up, he had to allay Spatz's suspicions. Had to make Spatz believe he was behaving himself. And what better way of convincing Spatz than by manipulating the reactions of the man supposedly closest to him? T'ai Cho's indignation  –  his angry disappointment in Kim  –  would throw Spatz off the scent. Would give Kim that tiny bit of room he needed.

Even so, it hurt. And that surprised Kim, because he had begun to question whether he had any feelings left after what they had done to him in Socialization. He recalled all the times he had met T'ai Cho since then, knowing what the man had once been to him, yet feeling nothing. Nothing at all. He had lain awake at nights, worried about that absence in himself, fearing that the ability to love had been taken from him, perhaps for good. So this  –  this hurt he felt at hurting another  –  was a sign of hope. Of a change in him.

He looked down at the poem on the desk, then sighed. What made it worse was that there was an element of truth in what he'd said. Remove Spatz and another Spatz would be appointed in his place. So it was in this life. Moreover, it was true what he had said about himself. Truer, perhaps, than he had intended.

All his life he had been owned. Possessed, not for himself, but thim toulppofor the thing within him  –  his ‘talent'. They used him, as they would a machine. And, like a machine, if he malfunctioned he was to be repaired, or junked.

He laughed softly, suddenly amused. Yes, he asked, but what makes me different from the machines? What qualities distinguish me from them? And are those qualities imperfections  –  weaknesses  –  or are they strengths? Should I be more like them or less?

They had conditioned him; walled off his past, taught him to mistrust his darker self; yet it was the very part of him from which it all emanated  –  the wellspring of his being.

The thinking part... they overvalued it. It was only the processor. The insights came from a deeper well than that. The upper mind merely refined it.

He smiled, knowing they were watching him, listening to his words. Well, let them watch and listen. He was better at this game than they. Much better.

He leaned forward, studying the poem.

To the watching eyes it would mean nothing. To them it seemed a meaningless string of chemical formulae; the mathematical expression of a complex chain of molecules. But Kim could see through the surface of the page and glimpse the Mandarin characters each formula represented. He smiled to himself, wondering what Spatz would make of it. Beyond the simple one-for-one code Kim had devised to print out the information taken from Hammond's personal files was a second code he had agreed upon with Hammond. That, too, was quite simple  –  providing you had the key to how it worked and a fluent understanding of Mandarin.

The poem itself was clumsy, its images awkward, clichéd  –  but that was understandable. Hammond was a scientist, not a poet. And whilst the examination system insisted upon the study of ancient poetry, it was something that most men of a scientific bias put behind them as quickly as possible. What was important, however, was the information contained within the central images. Three white swans represented how Spatz had divided the research into three teams. Then, in each of the next three lines, Hammond detailed  –  by use of other images  –  the area of study each team was undertaking.

It was a crude beginning  –  no more than a foundation  –  yet it showed it could be done. As Hammond gained confidence he would develop subtlety: a necessity in the days to come, for the information would be of a degree of complexity that would tax their inventiveness to the limit.

That said, the most difficult part was already resolved. Kim had devised a means by which he could respond to Hammond. His co-conspirator had only to touch a certain key on his computer keyboard and Kim's input would automatically load into his personal files. That same instruction would effectively shut down Hammond's keyboard  –  render it useless, its individual keys unconnected to its regular program. Whichever key Hammond subsequently pressed would bring up one character of Kim's reply, until his message was complete.

It was a trick he had learned in Socialization. A game he'd played, haunting the files of others with his cryptic messages. And no one had dreamed it was possible.

He typed his queries out quickly, keeping this first response simple, modelling his poem on one by the fourth-century poet, T'ao Ch'ien. It printed up on the screen as further chains of molecules. Then, happy with what he had done, he punched the code to send it to Hammond's file.

He switched off the set and sat back, stretching, suddenly tired. Then, unexpectedly, the comset came alive again, the printer at the side of the desk beginning to chatter. He caught his breath, watching the printout slowly emerge. A moment later it fell silent. He leaned forward and tore the printout off, then sat back, reading i="1nconsh;prit through.

It was from Spatz, informing him that he had been given permission to use the recreational facilities of the local Security forces.

He studied it a moment and then laughed. A pool! Spatz had given him a pool!


Her Uncle Jon had set and lit a fire in the huge hearth. Its flickering light filled the big, tall-ceilinged room, making it seem mysterious and half-formed, as if, at any moment, the walls would melt and run. Her father was sitting in a big, upright armchair by the window, staring out at the sea. Standing in the doorway, she looked across at him then back at the fire, entranced. It was something she had never seen before. Something she had never thought to see. Outside, beyond the latticed windows, evening was falling, dark clouds gathering over the sea, but here, inside, the firelight filled the room with warmth.

She knelt beside the fire, putting her hands out to it, shivering suddenly, not from the cold but from a feeling of familiarity; from a strange sense of having made the gesture before, in another life than this.

‘Careful,' her father said, almost lazily. ‘It's hot. Much hotter than you'd think.'

She knelt there in the half-shadow, mesmerized by the flickering pattern of the firelight, its fierce heat, its ever-changing dance of forms, then looked back at her father. His face was changed by the fire's light; had become a mask of black and gold, his eyes living, liquid jewels. For some reason it moved her deeply. At that moment her love for him was like something solid: she could touch it and smell it; could feel its very texture.

She looked about her. There were shelves on the walls, and books. Real books, like those she had seen in the museum once  –  leather-bound. She turned, hearing the door creak open, and looked up, smiling, at her uncle. Behind him came her aunt, carrying a tray of drinks.

‘What are all the books?'

She saw how her uncle looked to her father before he answered her; as if seeking his permission.

‘They're old things. History books and myth.'

‘Myth?'