He turned away, sipping at his ch'a. He did not look forward to seeing Hal Shepherd in such a state, yet it would be good to see his son again; to sit with him and talk. A faint, uncertain smile came to his lips. Yes, it would be good to speak with him, for in truth he needed a mirror just now: someone to reflect him back clearly to himself. And who better than Ben Shepherd? Who better in all Chung Kuo?
THE MAN staggered past him, then leaned against the wall unsteadily, his head lowered, as if drunk. For a moment he seemed to lapse out of consciousness, his whole body hanging loosely against his outstretched arm, then he lifted his head, stretching himself strangely, as if shaking something off. It was only then that Axel realized what he was doing. He was pissing.
Axel looked away, then turned back, hearing the commotion behind him. Two burly-looking guards—Han, wearing the dark green of GenSyn, not the powder-blue of Security—came running across, batons drawn, making for the man.
They stood on either side of the man as he turned, confronting him.
"What the fuck you think you do?" one of them said, prodding him brutally, making him stagger back against the wall.
He was a big man, or had been, but his clothes hung loosely on him now. They were good clothes, too, but like those of most of the people gathered there, they were grime-ridden and filthy. His face, too, bore evidence of maltreatment. His skin was blotched, his left eye almost closed, a dark, yellow-green bruise covering the whole of his left cheek. He stank, but again that was not uncommon, for most were beggars here.
He looked back at the guards blearily, then lifted his head in a remembered but long-redundant gesture of pride.
"I'm here to see the General," he said uncertainly, his pride leaking from him slowly until his head hung once again. "You know . . ." he muttered, glancing up apologetically, the muscle in his cheek ticking now. "The handout... I came for that. It was on the newscast. I heard it. Come to this place, it said, so I came."
The guard who had spoken grunted his disgust. "You shit bucket," he said quietly. "You fucking shit bucket. What you think you up to, pissing on the T'ang's walls?" Then, without warning, he hit out with his baton, catching the beggar on the side of the head.
The man went down, groaning loudly. As he did, the two guards waded in, standing over him, striking him time and again on the head and body until he lay still.
"Fucking shit bucket!" the first guard said as he stepped back. He turned, glaring at the crowd that had formed around him. "What you look at? Fuck off! Go on! Fuck off! Before you get same!" He raised his baton threateningly, but the message had gotten through already. They had begun to back off as soon as he had turned.
Axel stood there a moment longer, tensed, trembling with anger, then turned away. There was nothing he could do. Nothing, at least, that would not land him in trouble. Two he could have handled, but there were more than fifty of the bastards spread out throughout the hall, jostling whoever got in their way and generally making themselves as unpleasant as they could. He knew the type. They thought themselves big men—great fighters, trained to take on anything—but most of them had failed basic training for Security or had been recruited from the plantations, where standards were much lower. In many cases their behavior was simply a form of compensation for the failure they felt at having to wear the dark green of a private security force and not the imperial blue.
He backed away, making his way through the crowd toward the end of the hall, wondering how much longer they would be forced to wait. They had started lining up three hours ago, the corridors leading to the main transit packed long before Axel had arrived. For a brief while he had thought of turning back—even the smell of the mob was enough to make a man feel sick—but he had stayed, determined to be among the two thousand "fortunates" who would be let into the grounds of the Ebert Mansion for the celebrations.
He had dressed specially. Had gone out and bought the roughest, dirtiest clothes he could lay his hands on. Had put on a rough workman's hat—a hard shell of dark plastic, like an inverted rice bowl—and dirtied his face. Now he looked little different from the rest. A beggar. A shit-bucket bum from the lowest of the levels.
He looked about him, his eyes traveling from face to face, seeing the anger there and the despair, the futility and the incipient madness. There was a shiftiness to their eyes, a pastiness to their complexions, that spoke of long years of deprivation. And they were thin, every last one of them; some of them so painfully undernourished that he found it difficult to believe that they were still alive, still moving their wasted, fragile limbs. He stared at them, fascinated, his revulsion matched by a strong instinctive pity for them; for many, he knew, there had been no choice. They had fallen long before they were born, and nothing in this world could ever redeem them. In that he differed. He, too, had fallen, but for him there had been a second chance.
Lowering his head, he glanced at the timer at his wrist, keeping it hidden beneath the greasy cuff of his jacket. It was getting on toward midnight. They would have to open the gates soon, surely?
Almost at once he felt a movement in the crowd, a sudden surge forward, and knew the gates had been opened. He felt himself drawn forward, caught up in the crush.
Hei were manning the barriers, the big GenSyn half-men herding the crowd through the narrow gates. Above the crowd, on a platform to one side, a small group of Han officials looked on, counting the people as they went through.
Past the gates, crush barriers forced the crowd into semi-orderly lines, at the head of which more officials—many of them masked against the stench and the possibility of disease—processed the hopeful.
As movement slowed and the crush grew more intense, he heard a great shouting from way back and knew the gates had been closed, the quota filled. But he was inside.
The pressure on him from all sides was awful, the stink of unwashed bodies almost unbearable; but he fought back his nausea, reminding himself why he was there. To bear witness. To see for himself the moment when Hans Ebert was declared General-Elect.
As he passed through the second barrier, an official drew him aside and tagged his jacket with an electronic trace, then thrust a slice of cake and a bulb of drink into his hands. He shuffled on, looking about him, seeing how the others crammed their cake down feverishly before emptying the bulb in a few desperate swallows. He tried a mouthful of the cake, then spat it out. It was hard, dry, and completely without flavor. The drink was little better. Disgusted, he threw them down, and was immediately pushed back against the wall as those nearby fought for what he had discarded.
The big transit lift was just ahead of them now. Again Hei herded them into the space, cramming them in tightly, until Axel felt his breath being forced from him. Like the others surrounding him, he fought silently, desperately, for a little space— pushing out with his elbows, his strength an asset here.
The doors closed, the huge elevator—used normally for goods, not people—
began its slow climb up the levels. As it did, a voice sounded overhead, telling them that they must cheer when the masters appeared on the balcony; that they would each receive a five-^uan coin if they cheered loud enough.
"The cameras will be watching everyone," the voice continued. "Only those who cheer loudly will get a coin."
The journey up-level seemed to last an eternity. Two hundred and fifty levels they climbed, up to the very top of the City.
Coming out from the transit was like stepping outside into the open. Overhead was a great, blue-black sky, filled with moonlit cloud and stars, the illusion so perfect that for a moment Axel caught his breath. To the right, across a vast, landscaped park, was the Ebert Mansion, its imposing facade lit up brilliantly, the great balcony festooned with banners. A human barrier of Hei prevented them from going that way—the brute, almost porcine faces of the guards lit grotesquely from beneath. All around him people had slowed, astonished by the sight, their eyes wide, their mouths fallen open; but masked servants hurried them on, ushering them away to the left, into an area that had been fenced off with high transparent barriers of ice.