The Middle Kingdom (70 page)

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 which
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 print' ing. No, he would show
this to Director Andersen. See what the Hung Moo in charge made of
it. And then what?

Then I'll ask
him, T'ai Cho thought, switching off the light. Yes. 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 underage—but it's worth ,it if it keeps
him from killing Kim, eh?"

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, Director."

Andersen eased
himself back slowly. "Something else?"

T'ai Cho bowed
and held out the folder. "Something I stumbled upon."

Andersen took
the folder and opened it, taking out the stack of paper.
"Cumbersome," he said, his face crinkling in an expression
of 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
not a joke, Shih Andersen. It's something Kim put together."

Andersen studied
him a moment, then looked back down at the document, leafing through
a few pages before stopping, his attention caught by something he had
glimpsed. "You knew about this, then?"

"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. 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 youVe read it?"

"Yes. I've
read it. But as to what it is . . ." He shrugged. "I
suppose you might call it an alternative history of Chung Kuo. 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
usual." 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 quite 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, eh, 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. Shi/i 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, T'ai Cho."

"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-colored scholar's garment T'ai Cho had given him,
then he looked back at his tutor. "What's this, T'ai Cho?"

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 toward 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 Claybom 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
there was no fight."

"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. Nor, 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, T'ai Cho.

He shivered and
closed the desk, then went across to Kim and knelt at his side. "You
want to know why?"

Kim could not
look at him. He nodded and 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. "YouVe done nothing, Kim."

The boy gave a
little shudder, then turned his head slowly, until he was looking
into T'ai Cho's face. "Then why? Why are you going away?"

T'ai Cho looked
back at him, searching the child's dark eyes for evidence of
betrayal—for some sign that this was yet another act—but
he saw only hurt there and incomprehension.

"I've seen
your secret files," he said quietly. "Brahe and Aristotle."

There was a
small movement in the dark pupils, then Kim dropped his eyes. "I
see." Then he looked up again, and the expression of concern
took T'ai Cho by surprise. "Did it hurt you, reading them?"

T'ai Cho
shivered, then answered the boy honestly. "Yes. I wondered why
you would create a world like that."

Kim's eyes moved
away, then back again. "I never meant to hurt you. You must
believe me, T'ai Cho. I'd never deliberately hurt you."

"And the
file?"

Kim swallowed.
"I thought Matyas would kill me. He tried, you see. That's why I
left the note in the book. I knew that if I was killed you'd find it.
But I didn't think . . ."

T'ai Cho
finished it for him. "You didn't think I'd find it before you
were dead, is that it?"

Kim nodded. "And
now I've hurt you. . . ." He reached out and gently touched T'ai
Cho's face, stroking his cheek. "Believe me, T'ai Cho. I
wouldn't hurt you. Not for anything." Tears welled in his big
dark eyes. "I thought you knew. Didn't you see it? Don't you
understand it, even now?" He hesitated, a small shudder passing
through his frail, thin body, then spoke the words almost in a
whisper. "I love you, T'ai Cho."

T'ai Cho
shivered, then drew Kim against him once more. "Then I'd best
stay, hadn't I?"

THE CASTING SHOP
was a long, wide room with a high ceiling. Along its center stood six
tall, spiderish machines with squat bases and long segmented arms;
each machine three times the height of a grown man. To the sides were
a series of smaller machines, no two of them the same, but all
resembling to some degree or other their six identical elders.
Between the big machines in the center and the two rows of smaller
ones at the sides ran two gangways, each with an overhead track.
Young men moved between the machines, readying them, or stood in
groups, talking casually in these last few minutes before the work
bell rang.

Kim stood in the
doorway, looking in, and felt at once a strange affinity with the
machines. He smiled and looked up at T'ai Cho. "I think I'll
like it here."

The Supervisor
was a Han; a small man named Nung, who bowed and smiled a lot as he
led them through to his office at the far end of the Casting Shop. As
he made his way between the machines, Kim saw heads turn and felt the
eyes of the young men on his back, but his attention was drawn to the
huge mechanical spiders that stretched up to the ceiling.

"What are
they?" he asked the Supervisor once the partition door had slid
shut behind them.

Supervisor Nung
smiled tightly and looked to T'ai Cho. "Forgive my
unpreparedness, Shih T'ai. I was only told of this yesterday
evening."

It was clear
from the manner in which he ignored Kim's question that he felt much
put out by the circumstances of Kim's arrival.

"What are
they?" T'ai Cho asked, pointedly repeating Kim's question. "The
boy would like to know."

He saw the
movement in Nung's face as he tried to evaluate the situation. Nung
glanced at Kim, then gave the slightest bow to T'ai Cho. "Those
are the casting grids, Shih T'ai. One of the boys will give a
demonstration in a while. Kim"—he smiled insincerely at
the boy—"Kim will be starting on one of the smaller
machines."