Lever strode up and down, unable to rest, his whole body tense with anger, with the feeling of betrayal. At first it had hurt, seeing Michael there in his hospital bed, speaking out against him. He had stood there before the screen, shocked and frightened by the transformation in his son, as if all these years he had been sheltering a viper in his bosom. And now the snake had turned and he had been bitten.
"Well, damn him. Damn his black hide!" Lever's voice was almost hysterical, on the edge of tears. But when he turned back to face the young man his voice was calmer, more threatening than before. "Well, that's it, eh? A fine reward for a father's love. Spits in my face. Insults me. Questions my integrity." And with each statement he tapped his chest with the stiff-held fingers of his right hand. His large, double chin jutted out aggressively as he spoke and his eyes glared, challenging anyone to gainsay him. "He's not my son. Not now."
He turned to the lawyer. "Draw up the papers. Start now. I want him out! I don't want him to get a single yuan, understand? And if you need a new beneficiary, leave it all to the Institute."
The lawyer opened his mouth as if to query that, then closed it without saying a word. He nodded and turned to go.
"And Jim," said Lever, calling him back a moment. "Arrange to meet those bonds. In full. I'll have no one suffer for my son's treachery."
Alone, finally, Lever stood there by the window, looking out across the lawn toward the bright circle of the lake, seeing nothing but his son's face, younger, much younger than it was now, smiling as it looked up at him, so bright and eager and loving. He shuddered and, unseen, let the first tear fall. Not love nor money could bring that back now. Not love nor money.
AT t h at s A M E M o M E N T, in the great floating palace of Yangj ing, in geostationary orbit high above City Europe, Li Yuan was talking to his fellow T'ang, Wu Shih.
Wu Shih's face leaned in toward the surface of the screen, his features grave with concern. "The rumors are strong, Li Yuan. More than forty channels have carried something in the last few hours. And MedFac has gone so far as to declare that there is a war going on in your City."
"A war. . . ?" Li Yuan laughed, but beneath his laughter was concern. He had had General Rheinhardt report to him regularly since he had received Li Min's package, but now it seemed that the initial assessment of the situation had been wrong. There was indeed a war going on down there in the Lowers of his City, if not one which, as yet, threatened him. But if Wu Shih were growing concerned then it was time to act—firmly, decisively—to bring the thing to a quick close.
He smiled. "I am grateful for your concern, Wu Shih, but the matter is already in hand. Indeed, I hope to be able to issue a full statement to the media two hours from now; one that will reassure them and put an end to speculation."
Wu Shih smiled broadly. "I am glad it is so, cousin. It would look ill to leave the matter any longer."
"Indeed."
Li Yuan leaned across and cut the connection, then sat back, taking a long deep breath. He had held back from acting until now, adopting a course of wuwei—inaction—hoping that the matter would resolve itself. But from the latest report it seemed that the sides had reached a kind of stalemate. And that was dangerous.
So far the fighting had been limited to the Triad heartlands and to the lower fifty. Locked in a stalemate, however, one or both of the sides might look to escalate the conflict and bring in other, outside elements. And who knew where that might lead? No. He had to act, and now.
He leaned forward and tapped out the code that would connect him with Rheinhardt, then sat back, waiting for his General to appear.
"Helmut," he said without formalities. "I have a job for you. I want you to prepare the Hei for action. They are to go in an hour from now. It is time we settled this matter . . ."
standing THERE in the frame, Michael Lever looked about him. For the first time in weeks the big hospital room seemed cramped and crowded. Besides the two doctors and four attendants, others had come to see him take his first steps since the bombing. He looked across at them, smiling uncertainly, and feeling even less confident than he looked.
"Take your time," one of the doctors said, making a last check of the frame.
"Don't fuss," he said, looking briefly at the manual controls on his chest, hoping he would not need them.
At the far end of the room Kennedy was watching him, Mary and Jack Parker close by. As he met Kennedy's eyes, the older man's face creased into a smile. "Go for it," he said softly. "You can do it, Michael."
He nodded, pleased that they were there, then looked back at the doctor. "Ready?"
The doctor stepped back. "Whenever you are, Michael. But don't strain for it. The connections have to develop. Work them too hard and you'll have difficulties."
He had been told all of this before, but he listened, knowing how hard they had worked to get him here so quickly: standing, about to walk again. He turned his head and smiled at Mary. "Here goes, then."
It was an odd sensation, like wishing, and at first, like most wishes, nothing happened. He was used now to the numbness of his body; had grown used to the ghostly, disembodied sensation of not having his legs or arms respond to the messages he sent them. This, then, was strange. A calling upon ghosts.
He tried again, the message he sent—the desire—almost tentative. There was the faintest tingling in his muscles, but no movement. Not enough, he thought. Not quite enough. He closed his eyes, resting. The frame, keeping him upright, was a comfort, but he was still afraid. What if it didn't work? What if, after all that delicate and painful surgery, the machine malfunctioned? What then?
They had warned him about this. He would feel fragile, alienated from his own body. The bioprosthetic implants would seem intrusive, maybe even hostile to him. But they were not. They were simply undeveloped. He had only to trust them.
Opening his eyes, he turned his head again, looking to the doctor. "It's hard," he said. "It feels like there's no power there. No pressure."
"There's a tingling?"
"Yes, but it's very faint."
The doctor smiled. "Good. Work on that. Bring that tingling on a bit. Develop it. But remember, your muscles have done no work at all these past weeks. There'll have been a slight atrophy. Nothing damaging, but enough to make it seem at first that you're getting nowhere. Keep trying, though, and it'll come."
He turned his head back. Then, gritting his teeth, he tried again. The tingling grew. Then, suddenly, he felt the frame lift and then settle again. He had moved his left leg forward about four inches.
There was a cheer in the room. He looked up. Everyone was smiling at him. He laughed, relief flooding in.
"That's great," said the doctor, coming closer to check on the frame. "That's really excellent, Michael."
The frame had done it, exaggerating his movement mechanically and taking his full weight, but that did not lessen the sense of achievement he felt. After so long he was connected again, linked up to his own body. He shivered and felt tears come to his eyes. As he developed the connections, the control he now had over his body, the doctors would slowly diminish the supportive power of the frame. And eventually, if all went well, he would discard the frame altogether. He would walk again.
Mary came across and held him awkwardly, one arm reaching through the frame to take his shoulder, the other caressing his cheek. "I'm so glad, my love. Really I am." She stood back, grinning widely. "I can't wait to see you walk into the House and take your seat."
He grinned back. All of the fear he had been feeling these past few days had dissipated. Slowly, conscious of the awkward, rather stilted movements of the hydraulics, he raised his left arm and moved it until his hand rested on his wife's shoulder. "Just now I feel a bit like a maintenance machine," he said, laughing.