The runners crossed the great floor slowly in a great tide, approaching the tower timidly, their eyes wide, staring at the rows of headless corpses, the gruesome stack of bloodied skulls nearby. Then, at Visak's shouted command, they went down onto their knees, lowering their foreheads to the floor. More than four thousand men in all. Kuei Chuan, every one.
Lehmann stood there a moment, looking out across their lowered backs, then went among them, lifting this man's chin and staring into his face, and then another's, moving between them'all the while, fearless and magisterial, like a T'ang, his every movement emphasizing his command.
For long minutes there was silence; a silence in which, it seemed, they dare not even breathe, then, coming out from their midst, Lehmann went over to the stack of heads and, taking one in each hand, turned to face the watching mass.
"These were my enemies," he said, his voice calm and cold and measured. "And this will be the fate of all my enemies, from this day on. But you . . . you have the chance to be my friends. My men."
He set the heads down and took a step toward them.
"There is a price for disloyalty. So it is. So it has always been among our kind. But loyalty . . . how do you earn that? What is its price?" Lehmann turned his head slowly, his pale pink eyes encompassing them all. "I understand your shock, your confusion over what has happened. But I know that many among you were unhappy with how things were under Lu Ming-shao. That many of you welcome change. As for me ... well, you do not know me yet. Only, perhaps, by reputation. That, too, I understand. You might fear me right now, but there is no reason for you—any of you—to owe me any loyalty. Not yet. But in the months to come I shall ask much of you. Things Whiskers Lu never dreamed to ask. And in return?"
Lehmann paused and nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as if in reverie; yet when he spoke again, his voice was suddenly powerful, echoing across the great open space. "In return I will give you everything. Everything you ever dreamed of."
kim removed the jack from the face of the terminal, letting the wire coil back into the stud beneath his ear, then sat back, breathing shallowly. "It's good. Very good. And easy to use. I thought it would take a while to get used to."
The surgeon smiled. "Everyone thinks that. And there's a degree of truth to it. What you've just experienced—that's just the beginning. You see, while it uses the same skills you've always had—you can't, after all, slow down the speed that messages travel at in the nervous system—you're used to limiting your thought processes to the speed at which you can read or speak language. Once those limitations are removed, the brain can process raw data at phenomenal speeds. Anything up to a thousand times as fast as it could unaided. But it takes a while to adapt."
Kim nodded, his eyes looking inward. He was remembering how it had felt: the power of that feeling. Information had flashed into his head at an almost frightening speed. He had had a feeling of exultation, of tightness—of utter clarity. He had felt himself grow by the moment, achieving a degree of sharpness he had never experienced before. Sparks of pure insight had flickered between points in his head, like electrical discharges, and he had struggled to hold on to them as others filled his head.
He looked at the surgeon again. "You should do this yourself. It would help you, surely?"
The surgeon laughed. "They all say that. We call it conversion syndrome. Those who haven't got it, fear it; those who have, have a proselytizing urge to make others have the operation. But I don't have it because I can't."
"Why?" Kim's fingers traced the shape of the stud unconsciously. It was a gesture that betrayed the newness of the implant. The surgeon saw it and smiled.
"For you there are no drawbacks. You're a theoretician, not a practitioner. But experiment has found that there's a slight decay of motor control. A loss of sharpness in that area. As if the increased use of the memory draws upon other sections of the brain and weakens their functions. A sort of compensatory effect, if you like. As a surgeon I can't risk that. My work is with my hands as much as with my knowledge of the mind's workings. I can't afford to impair my motor responses. Besides, they'd not allow me to."
Kim nodded, considering. "There would be other difficulties, too, wouldn't there?"
The surgeon smiled. "Interfacing," he explained quickly. "That's the term we have for it. From old computer jargon. Interfacing is the difficulty you experienced moving from one state to another. Why you couldn't say anything for the first few seconds. The mind has grown accustomed to responding at what is, for it, a more natural speed. Dropping down from that it stumbles and finds great difficulty in adjusting. The effect lasts only five to ten seconds, but it would be utterly debilitating for a surgeon.
"You only get that effect when you cut out, and there seems no way of preventing it. When you plug in, the mind speeds up gradually. It's almost two seconds before it reaches its full operating speed. Cutting out, there's no gradual assimilation. The change of state is immediate and, to an extent, shocking."
"Harmful?"
The surgeon shook his head. "The mind's a resilient machine. It defends itself against damage. That's what the interfacing effect is—a defense mechanism. Without it there would be damage."
There was a knock on the door. A moment later an orderly entered and, after bowing to the surgeon, handed Kim a "sealed" notecard, the tiny slip of plastic winking blankly in the overhead light.
"Excuse me a moment," Kim said, getting up from the chair and moving away from the terminal.
"Of course," the surgeon answered. "I'll make my other calls, then come back later, if you like."
Alone again, Kim placed his thumb to the seal and activated the release. At once a message appeared on the blank plastic card. He read it slowly, moving his lips to form each word, realizing, even as the message sank in, how painfully slow this normal way of doing things was. Then that was forgotten. He read it through again, astonished, his mind struggling to understand what had happened.
"He can't. . ." he said, turning sharply to face the door, his whole stance suddenly changed; his body tensed now, crouched like a fighter's. "No . . ."
The message was brief and to the point, signed with Tolonen's personal code.
SWiWard,
You are not to see my daughter, nor should you try to see her. There is no future for the two of you, and certainly no possibility of a match. You will keep away from my living quarters and deal with me only through my office in future. Finally, let me warn you. If you persist in this matter, I shall do all in my power to break you.
—Knut Tolonen.
The hairs on his neck bristled as he read the note again. He threw it down and went to the terminal. Sitting there, he tapped in the "Reach" code she had given him. Her private code, known only to her and him. He waited, anger and fear and something else—something he knew but could not put a name to—churning in his stomach. For a long time there was nothing. The screen remained blank, the delay pulse the only sign that the machine was attempting to connect them. Then, almost imperceptibly, the screen changed, showing not her face, as he'd hoped, but a message. Briefer than Tolonen's and less personal, but something: a sign for him that she had no part in this.
Nanking. South Port 3. Meridian.
Nanking was the great spaceport that served the colonies. South Port 3 must be the departure point, the Meridian the ship. But why had she given him these details? Unless . . .
He went cold. Quickly he signed off, then summoned up details of departures from Nanking, South Port 3, and found the Meridian listed on the second page. He shivered. Seven hours. Less than seven hours, in fact. That was all the time he had to get to her and . . .