At the hatch that led through into the kitchens, a guard raised his rifle and challenged him.
"Let me through!" he yelled, batting the rifle down. "Your prince's life depends on it!"
The guard watched him go through, his mouth open, then nodded and turned to defend the hatch, knowing now, if he'd not before, that something was badly wrong.
The kitchens were empty. Tseng-li ran through the long, echoing rooms, conscious of his own hoarse breathing, and of the half-dozing weight of the child against his chest. He was cradling Kuei Jen awkwardly, holding his tiny body firmly against him, afraid to drop or knock him.
On the far side of the kitchens he stopped, taking deep breaths, then listened. There were clear sounds of fighting now—explosions and distant shouting, then the harsh but muted sound of someone screaming. He thumbed the hatch's manual controls awkwardly and clambered through into a narrow, rounded corridor where he had to stoop and move more slowly. It all depended now on how quick the intruders were, how well they knew the layout of the palace. If they traveled straight up the hub they might have gotten there already,
but he was gambling on them not doing that. The private quarters were at the front end of the palace, on the rim. If they were interested in the T'ang and his family they would go there first. Or so he hoped.
As he moved along this narrow tunnel all sound was masked from him. But at the end, he came out into the brightly lit well, and the noise came back. Voices. Uncultured, Mid-level voices. He swallowed, understanding at once. Terrorists!
It was hard to judge how far away the voices were. They could be down at the far end of the hub still, or they might be directly above him, at this end. If the latter, then he and Kuei Jen were dead.
He crossed the open space, then set the child down carefully in its blankets, praying that it would not wake and cry. He straightened up, breathing heavily, then opened one of the dozen or so lockers built into the wall and took out the infant-sized pressure suit. Quickly he fitted and sealed it, checking that the oxygen supply was working before fastening the helmet. Then, reaching up into another of the lockers, he took down his own suit and pulled it on.
He had wasted more than two minutes getting suited up. Now it was more important than ever to be quick.
Here, at the "lower" end of the palace, there was only the narrowest of connecting tubes from the rim to the hub. It was an emergency and maintenance run, with a single stretch of laddering up the inside of a plain metallic pipe. Clutching the child to him, he began to climb. It looked simple, but he was climbing away from the fast-rotating rim toward the hub. As he progressed along the rungs he would grow steadily more weightless. Carrying the child he would need to be careful. The last part of the climb would be awkward, difficult.
And maybe, just maybe, they would be waiting for him.
KI m WAS SITTING on the edge of the desk, going through the latest batch of results with Feng Wo-shen and another of his assistants, when the doors at the far end of the laboratory swung open violently.
"Becky..."
He stood, looking across at her. Little more thari an hour had passed since he had last seen her, yet Rebecca looked quite awful. Her eyes were dark and puffy, her hair disheveled. She had torn her silks—ripped or cut them—and they hung raggedly from her, like the clothes of a low-level beggar. But these were as nothing compared to the strangeness of her stance, to the tense, animal poise of her, the fierce hostility in her eyes.
She stood there a moment, staring at him, then, slowly, very slowly, she began to come toward him, a strange awkwardness to her movements that he recognized at once. So Luke had been, before they'd come for him. And Will. And finally Deio. Each one in turn, like unstable formations of atoms, spinning violently out of shape.
She had regressed, Returned to what she'd been, down there in the darkness of the Clay. Or almost so, for there was still a spark of sanity in her eyes, the merest glint of light where once the bright fire of intellect had shone out.
Feng Wo-shen touched his arm. "Should I call Security?"
"No," Kim said, putting out a hand, as if to physically stop him. "No, Feng, I'll deal with this."
Slowly Feng backed away, drawing the assistant with him.
Rebecca had stopped, three paces from Kim, her body tensed, as if about to spring. Looking at her, he could almost see the darkness flowing from her. Darkness, like a great force of negativity, pouring from her eyes, her mouth, the corded muscles of her limbs. And yet there was still an element of control. Something still held her back— one tiny, quivering cord of reason held her.
Reason ... or obsession.
She raised her chin slightly, as if sniffing the air, then lifted her arm, pointing at him.
"You were wrong, Kim Ward. You didn't understand."
Her hand was trembling, its frailty exaggerated by the movement, as if at any moment it would disintegrate. For a moment her mouth struggled to make shapes, as if some vital link between it and her inner self had been severed; then, freeing itself, it spoke.
"It should have been us. You and me. Together, like Yin and Yang, until the end of things." She shivered, an unnatural intensity making her tremble. "You're mine, Kim Ward, don't you understand that yet? Mine. It was meant"
She came closer, her eyes staring fiercely, defiantly into his. A muscle in her cheek was twitching now, jumping violently, as if something had got in behind the flesh.
"But you didn't want that, did you? You wanted something better than that, neh? Something finer." She laughed coldly, her face ugly, sneering now, her voice filled with a sudden venom. "You think you're something special, don't you? You think they really want you here. But it's not true. We're different from them. We're Clay, Kim. Clay. And they never let us forget it.
"Every smile they give us is a lie. Every word a deception. But you can't see that, can you? You're dazzled by the light of this place. So much so that you can't see the darkness underlying everything."
She tilted her head slowly, lifting it, looking back at him from a strange, unnatural angle. "Everything. Even your precious girl. But then, you wouldn't have heard, would you?"
He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
She smiled; a hideous, triumphant smile. "IVe watched you. . . you know that? Followed you all these years. Kept tabs on what you've done, who youVe met. That's how I knew."
The smile slowly faded. Beneath it lay a bleak, hard bitterness.
"It was Tolonen, wasn't it? Tolonen who sent her away. I checked, you see. I found things out."
He was silent, but her words made him afraid.
"Tolonen," she said again, her face hardening. "Jelka Tolonen. Your paragon of light. But do you know what she did? She nearly killed a man, that's what. A young cadet. Kicked him to death, almost."
He shook his head. "You're lying."
"Am I?" She gave a bitter laugh. "From what I've heard, your darling Jelka's a right little monster. Why, IVe heard . . ."
The sound of the slap startled Kim. He was conscious of Rebecca stumbling back, of Feng's cry behind him, but before that there had been a moment of utter darkness. Of forgetting.
He gave a little shake of his head, as if coming to, then looked across at her again. Rebecca was standing there, one hand raised to her face, a startled, angry look in her eyes.
What had she said? What was it now?
He looked down at his hand. The palm stung, as if it had been sprayed with antiseptic. Then he looked back at her, at the red welt on her cheek. For a moment there was no connection, only a kind of numbness, a blackness where things ought to have been joined, and then he understood. He had struck her. Because of something she had said. Because . . .