He looked back at the two men by the door, moving the gun between them.
“You? ... Or you?”
He lowered the gun, considering a moment, then, making a show of aiming it again, pointed it at the second guard. “You, I think.” “Husband ...”
The voice was like a whisper from the other side. Wang turned, looking at the woman. She was sitting up, and her eyes, which bulged from the diseased flesh, stared at him as if from Hell itself. Husband . . .
The explosion rocked him. It was as if he had been jabbed with a red-hot poker. He looked down, seeing at once where the bullet had entered him. Even as he stared the redness spread, and with it a searing pain that was like ice scorching through his veins. The gun fell from his hand. Slowly he sank to his knees.
He turned his head, looking, trying to understand just what had happened. The two guards seemed frozen. Their guns were lowered, their faces shocked. Between them, looking back at him from where he lay, the Captain held a gun. As he watched the faintest trace of smoke lifted from the barrel.
“Ah...” he said, smiling through the encroaching blackness. “Ah. . .” “Chieh Hsia,” the man answered him, letting his face fall back into the sticky mess that surrounded him. “Chieh Hsia ...”
EPILOGUE I WINTER 2213
Sunlight and Rain
To understand others is to be knowledgeable;
To understand yourself is to be wise.
To conquer others is to have strength;
To conquer yourself is to be strong.
To know when you have enough is to be rich.
To go forward with strength is to have ambition.
To not lose your place is to last long.
To die but not be forgotten—that’s true long life.
lao Tzu, Te-Too Ching (chapter 33)
Chen sat on the fence beside the plank bridge, looking back across the fields toward the village. Behind him, at the intersection of the two big irrigation canals, stood the Overseer’s House, its three tiers dominating the skyline for ten It in every direction. It was a crisp, clear day, and from where he sat he could see figures moving about in the broad grassy avenue between the blockhouses. Kosaya Gora was one of the biggest of the Moscow Region plantations and besides the normal dormitories had two dozen big farmhouses, most of them shared by single families—three generations sharing the twelve large rooms. As Supervisor, Chen had been allocated one of them. On seeing it Wang Ti had shaken her head. “All these rooms to keep clean,” she’d said, as if scolding him, but her eyes had told a different story. He had seen how she looked about her, wide-eyed, a child again, and Jyan!—even Jyan had smiled when he’d seen what it was like. “It’s so big, Dad,” he’d said. “The sky . . .” His voice had trailed off in wonder. “I never imagined ...”
Chen looked down. It had rained that morning and the grass on the embankment was still wet. He jumped down, then crouched, his right palm resting on the dark, soft earth. Plucking a blade he put it to his lips and closed his eyes.
So real, it seemed a dream. . . .
He smiled. Twelve years it had taken. Twelve years of exile, from the earth . . . and from himself.
He opened his eyes, staring out across the shining water, then looked closely at the grass blade in his hand. Sunlight and rain, that was all he’d ever wanted. He understood that now. Sunlight and rain. He stood again, then turned full circle, taking it all in. To the north and east, some two, three li distant, were the storehouses—massive covered reservoirs of grain and rice. Closer to hand were the quarters of the Overseer’s guards, three one-story bunkers in a staggered line. South, beyond the blockhouses, were the workers’ quarters, a dozen long, low huts embedded in the earth.
And the City?
Chen smiled. From Kosaya Gora one could not see the City. One could look forever and see no sign of walls and levels. He laughed, then turned back to face the village.
Two of the figures had broken from the others and were running toward him across the fields. In the late afternoon sunlight he had to squint to make out who it was, then smiled, starting to make his way toward them. There was a shrill yell of greeting and then a long whooping sound, the last from his twelve-year-old, Wu. But it was his daughter, Ch’iang Hsin, who reached him first.
“Papa!” she yelled breathlessly. “They’re going to throw a party! A welcoming party! For us!”
He grinned and picked her up, whirling her about. “I know,” he said, hugging her tightly. “And there’ll be cakes and special drinks!” As Wu came up, he scooped him up in his other arm, then began to carry them back, laughing, the two children giggling and screeching beneath his arms.
Later, seated at the top of the steps of the blockhouse, Ch’iang Hsin wrapped up and snuggled into his side, Chen looked out, watching the villagers prepare the tables down below. Behind him the door was open, and from the window to his left he could hear Wang Ti singing in the kitchen as she scrubbed the floor.
“Well?” he asked the eight-year-old, putting his arm about her shoulders.
“Do you think you’ll like it here?”
She nodded silently, but her eyes were filled with the magical strangeness of the place.
He smiled. “It’s beautiful, neh? But you should see it in the summer. ...” He turned, trying to take in once more the overwhelming openness of the place, the unending vastness of the sky. So blue it was, even now, when the snows were only weeks away.
My second life, he thought, and shivered, not from the cold, but from the memory of a summer night twelve years before. He narrowed his eyes, remembering the sound of flute and strings floating enchant-ingly on the night air beneath a three-quarter moon, the villagers whirling about an open fire, their faces shining, their dark eyes laughing in the fire’s light.
And other things. He remembered the stoop-backed youth, Pavel, and all that had happened to him. Dust he was, and yet for that one brief moment he lived again inside Chen’s skull, his long face smiling back out of the darkness, his soft-spoken words a haunting echo. “I thank you, Kao Chen... but I think I would die in there. No fields, no open air, no wind. No running water, no sun, no moon, no changing seasons. Nothing. Nothing but waHs.”
The face receded, the voice fell silent. Dust he was. . . . Chen sat forward a little, holding Ch’iang Hsin tightly to his side. Pavel had been right. There was nothing in the City. For a moment he held himself still, listening to the sounds of his new life—to the breeze soughing through the fields, to the soft, harmonious voices of the villagers, to the hiss and clatter from a dozen kitchens as the women prepared things for the party. But one sound dominated all others—the sound of Wang Ti singing as she worked, like an uncaged bird sat in the branches of a tall tree.
He sighed, then kissed the crown of his daughter’s head. “We’re here,” he said softly, as much to himself as to her. “We’re really, finally here.” “Yes,” she answered quietly, then leaned forward, pointing beyond the rooftops to the west. “Look, Papa . . . clouds . . . look at the clouds!”