Li Shai Tung tried to draw back, but Wang Ta Chuan tugged at the cloth viciously, pulling him off balance. Yet even as the T'ang began to fall, Li Yuan was moving past him, high-kicking the knife from Wang's hands, then spinning around to follow through with a second kick that broke the servant's nose.
Li Shai Tung edged back, watching as his son crouched over the fallen man.
"No, Yuan— No!"
But it was no use. Li Yuan was as if possessed. His breath hissed from him as he kicked and punched the fallen man. Then, as if coming to, he stepped back, swaying, his eyes glazed.
"Gods . . ." Li Shai Tung said, pulling himself up against the edge of the desk, getting his breath.
Li Yuan turned, looking at him, his eyes wide. "He tried to kill you, Father!
Why? What had he done?"
The old T'ang swallowed dryly, then looked away, shaking his head, trying to control himself, trying not to give voice to the pain he felt. For a moment he could say nothing; then he looked back at his son.
"He was a spy, Yuan. For Wang Sau-leyan. He passed on information to our cousin."
The last word was said with a venom, a bitterness that surprised them both.
Li Yuan stared at his father, astonished. "A traitor?" He turned, looking down at the dead man. "For a moment I thought it was one of those things. Those copies that came in from Mars. I thought. . ."
He stopped, swallowing, realizing what he had done.
Li Shai Tung watched his son a moment longer, then went back around his desk and took his seat again. For a time he was silent, staring at his hands, then he looked up again. "I must thank you, Yuan. You saved my life just then. Even so, you should not have killed him. Now we will never know the reason for his treachery. Nor can I confront our cousin without the man's confession."
"Forgive me, Father. I was not myself."
"No ... I could see that." He hesitated, then looked at his son more thoughtfully. "Tell me. When you came in just now—what did you want? What was so important that it made you forget yourself like that?"
For a moment it seemed that Yuan would answer; then he shook his head. "Forgive me, Father, it was nothing."
Li Shai Tung studied his son a moment longer, then nodded and reached out, holding the tiny statue to him as if to draw comfort from it.
klaus ebert and the Marshal stood face to face, their glasses raised to each other.
"To our grandchildren!"
Ebert nodded his satisfaction, then leaned closer. "1 must say, Jelka is lovelier than ever, Knut. A real beauty she's become. She must remind you of Jenny."
"Very much."
Tolonen turned, looking across. Jelka was sitting beside Klaus's wife, Berta, her hands folded in her lap, her blond hair set off perfectly by the flowing sky-blue dress she was wearing. As he watched, Hans went across and stood over her, handsome, dashingly elegant. It was the perfect match. Tolonen turned back, almost content, only the vaguest unease troubling him. She was still young, after all. It was only natural for her to have doubts.
"Hans will be good for her," he said, meeting his old friend's eyes. "She needs a steadying influence."
Klaus nodded, then moved closer. "Talking of which, Knut, I've been hearing things. Unsettling things." He lowered his voice, his words for the Marshal only. "I hear that some of the young bucks are up to old tricks. That some of them are in rather deep. And more than youthful pranks."
Tolonen stared at him a moment, then nodded curtly. He had heard something similar. "So it is, I'm sad to say. The times breed restlessness in our young men. They are good apples gone bad."
Ebert's face showed a momentary distaste. "Is it our fault, Knut? Were we too strict as fathers?"
"You and I?" Tolonen laughed softly. "Not we, Klaus. But others?" He considered. "No, there's a rottenness at the very core of things. Li Shai Tung has said as much himself. It is as if Mankind cannot live without being at its own throat constantly. Peace, that's at the root of it. We have been at peace too long, it seems."
It was almost dissent. Klaus Ebert stiffened, hearing this bitterness from his friend's lips. Things were bad indeed if the Marshal had such thoughts in his head.
"Ach, I have lived too long!" Tolonen added, and the sudden ironic tone in his voice brought back memories of their youth, so that both men smiled and touched each other's arms.
"All will be well, Klaus, I promise you. We'll come to the root of things soon enough. And then"—he made a movement that suggested pulling up and discarding a plant—"then we shall be done with it."
They looked at each other grimly, a look of understanding passing between them. They knew the world and its ways. Few illusions remained to them these days.
Tolonen turned to get a fresh drink, and caught sight of Jelka, getting up hastily, the contents of her glass splashing over the serving creature who stood beside her. He frowned as she came across.
"What is it, my love? You look like you've seen a ghost!"
She shook her head, but for the moment could not speak. There was a distinct color in her cheeks. Klaus Ebert looked at her, concerned.
"Did my creature offend you, Jelka?" He looked at her tenderly, then glared at the creature across the room.
"No . . ." She held on to her father's arm, surprised by her reaction to the creature. "It's just. . ."
"Did it frighten you?" her father asked gently.
She laughed. "Yes. It did. It—surprised me, that's all. I'm not used to them." Ebert relaxed. "It's my fault, Jelka. I forget. They're such gentle, sophisticated creatures, you see. Bred to be so."
She looked at him, curious now. "But why?" She was confused by this. "I mean, why are they like that? Like goats?"
Ebert shrugged. "I suppose it's what we're used to. My great-grandfather first had them as servants and they've been in the household ever since. But they really are the most gentle of creatures. Their manners are impeccable. And their dress sense is immaculate."
She thought of the fine silk of the creature's sleeves, then shuddered, recalling childhood tales of animals that talked.
That and the musk beneath the scent; the darkness at the back of those blood-pink eyes. Impeccable, immaculate, and yet still an animal at the back of all. A beast for all its breeding.
She turned to look, but the serving creature had gone, as if it sensed it was no longer welcome. Good manners, she thought, but there was little amusement to be had from it. The thing had scared her.
"They breed true," Ebert added. "In fact, they're the first of our vat-bred creatures to attain that evolutionary step. We're justly proud of them."
Jelka looked back at her future father-in-law, wondering at his pride in the goat-thing he had made. But there was only human kindness in his face.
She looked away, confused. So maybe it was her. Maybe she was out of step.
But it was ugly, she thought. The thing was ugly. Then, relenting, she smiled and took the glass of wine Klaus Ebert was holding out to her.
AN HOUR LATER the ritual began.
Overhead the lighting dimmed. At the far end of the room, the huge doors slowly opened.
It was dark in the hallway beyond, yet the machine glowed from within. Like a pearled and bloated egg, its outer skin as dark as smoked-glass, it floated soundlessly above the tiled floor, a tightly focused circle of light directly beneath it. Two GenSyn giants guided it, easing it gently between the pillars of the door and out across the jet-black marble of the tiles.
Jelka watched it come, her stomach tight with fear. This was her fate. Unavoidable, implacable, it came, gliding toward her as in a dream, its outer case shielding its inner brilliance, masking the stark simplicity of its purpose.
She held her father's arm tightly, conscious of him at her side, of how proudly he stood there. For him this moment held no threat. Today his family was joined to Klaus Ebert's by contract—something he had wished for since his youth. And how could that be wrong?