There was a murmur of surprise as Kim appeared, dressed simply, a slender folder tucked beneath his arm. Many looked beyond him, waiting to see who else was to come, but there was no one, only the employees of Ch'i Chu, who came out and stood there under the arch of the entrance.
Many in the crowd had seen the boy, either in the tea house, or walking the corridors late at night. Few, however, understood who he was, or what his role in the strangely named Ch'i Chu corporation was. They had thought him just a boy. A messenger, perhaps, or the nephew of a rich man. But now they looked at him anew, redefining him. Or trying to.
Kim stopped, glancing about him uncertainly, then turned back, a smile coming to his face. Bright red good-fortune banners had been draped over the doorway to the offices. Beneath them, all six of his staff had formed up, to say good-bye and wish him luck.
"Here," T'ai Cho said, coming forward and handing him a small, sealed box. "You'll need this."
"What is it?"
"Lunch," T'ai Cho explained, smiling broadly. "From what I'm told, it will be a good few hours before they process the patent, and I know you. You would forget to eat."
Thanks, Kim mouthed, touching his arm briefly, then looked back at the others. The two middle-aged Thais he had hired as researchers were grinning broadly now and waving, excited as children. Beside them, to their right, his assistant, a fresh-faced, young Han named Hong Chi, was looking about him, wide-eyed, clearly enjoying it all. Seeing Kim watching him, Hong smiled, then lowered his head, blushing.
Kim's guard, a stocky young Hung Mao named Richards, met his eyes proudly and shouted a gruff "Good luck!" while Nong Yan, his bookkeeper, called out, "Go now! Make us all rich!" which brought a huge shout of laughter from the rest.
"I shall," Kim said softly, feeling warmed by the smiling faces that surrounded him on every side. "Be sure I shall."
With a bow to them all, Kim turned, climbing up into the sedan. As the pole-men lifted the heavy chair, he leaned out, waving goodbye, his voice drowned by the cheering of the crowd and the shouts of the two runners as they cleared the path ahead.
Sitting back, Kim felt a shiver of anticipation ripple through him. So this was it. He looked down at the folder in his lap and gave a little laugh of surprise. Some days he would simply sit there, staring at his hands, astonished that he had survived the darkness of the Clay to come to this. And he would count himself blessed that it was so, in spite of all that had happened in between. Even so, today was special, for today it all came together at last.
"Smoke rings . . ." he said quietly, then laughed again, feeling the sedan sway and bob beneath him. "Smoke rings and spiders' webs."
EMILY TURNED quickly, the narrow beam of the overhead light picking out the false image in the mirror, then flipped backward,
ignoring the hologram that appeared suddenly to her right, facing the shadowed figure by the door, the knife held out before her. The blade flashed, sank deep into the upper rib cage, then jerked back. She took a step back, breathing deeply, then sheathed the knife, satisfied.
"Cut," she said quietly. At once the lights came up, the apartment's computer registering her command.
Shuddering, Emily wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It had been a hard workout. For the first time in a long while she had forced herself to the very limit.
She looked about the room—at the bloodied figure of the mannequin; at the darted targets she had set up on the walls; at the ceiling-mounted projectors; at the mats and traps and trip wires—and realized she had missed the excitement of all this. It was time she did something. Time she started organizing once again.
Quickly she went about the room, tidying up, stashing the equipment in the storage box at the far end of the room and covering it all over with a pile of sheets and old clothes. Then she went through to the shower, standing there under the flow until the water ran out, considering the way ahead. Mach was out, meeting contacts and making deals: doing what he was good at. She had barely seen him for more than twenty minutes since he'd arrived that night. As for herself, it was two days now since she had been in to the office.
She had called in sick. A brief message on Michael Lever's personal comset. He had called back, less than a minute later, asking if she needed anything; saying that he'd call if she wanted him to. But she had sent back that it was all right. It was just a virus. Nothing serious. Just one of the new forty-eight-hour things that had been sweeping the levels recently. She would keep to her bed and come in when she felt better. His second message was brief, almost businesslike, except for the way he'd signed it. "Love Michael."
So where did that leave her? She walked about the apartment, toweling herself, recalling how Michael had looked at her the other evening at the ball, and how she'd felt, watching him as he talked, conscious of a growing admiration for him. In the hallway she stopped, standing before the flowers he had sent, and lifted one of the perfect pink and white orchids to her nose. The blooms were still fresh, their scents rich. With the faintest shiver she turned away,
returning to the bedroom. There, she stood before the wardrobe, wondering what to wear. She was going down level, so it would have to be something basic. The kind of thing her alias, Rachel De Valerian, might wear.
She looked across. The false ID was on the bed, where she'd left it earlier. A permit card. Employment details. False retinas. Everything she'd need if she were to be stopped and questioned by Security. DeVore had thought it all through. Had made sure to do a fine job for her. But why? Because he knew she would eventually begin again, agitating, causing trouble for the Seven? Was it simply that? Or was it something else? Had he some other purpose that was as yet hidden from her?
Whatever, it was time to take a few risks. Time to make good on the promises she had made herself.
She had changed and dried her hair when a knock came on the door. Three raps, a pause, a single rap, a pause, and then a further three. Mach. He was back.
She studied herself in the mirror a moment, composing herself, then went through, slipping the bolt from the door, then pressing the key-open. As the door began to slide back, Mach came through, barely looking at her, making straight for the bathroom.
"Hey!" she called after him. "What's the hurry?"
She followed him along, then stood there in the doorway watching as he undid his jacket and took out three high-powered Security automatics, each handgun wrapped in sheet ice, and placed them in the now empty water-cabinet above the shower.
That done, he turned, grinning at her, his new face still a shock to her each time she saw it.
"That's good," he said, noting at once how she was dressed, his careful eyes not missing that her eye color had changed, but registering it by the movement of a finger to one of his own eyes. "Who arranged that for you? DeVore?"
She stared at him, something of her old hostility returning. "Well it wasn't you, was it, Jan? You wanted me dead."
Mach laughed strangely. "Did he tell you that?" He shrugged. "He told me you'd slipped the net. That he'd tried for you, but that you'd been too good for him."
She shivered, thinking back. No, it hadn't been like that. DeVore had found her easily enough, and—if he'd wanted to—he could have killed her. But he hadn't. And here she was, two years on, ready to begin again.