"I've done what I can, Shih Ward, but it's in danger of damaging itself. Some of the chemicals it's throwing down-"

"I know," Kim said, anxious now that he'd seen how agitated the creature was. Something had pushed it over the edge. Something or someone . . .

"Ravachol!" he called, walking toward it. "Come, now, you've got to stop that!"

The android stopped and turned, staring at him, the knife held out threateningly. Kim made to take a further step, but the Captain grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"No, sir. I can't let you. Director Reiss-"

Kim shrugged himself free, but the Captain took his arm again, more firmly this time. "I've orders, Shih Ward. It's too dangerous. If you should be hurt-"

"He's right," Curval said, coming up beside him. "Look at it. It's gone. Look at its eyes. It doesn't evenrecognize you. It's what we feared. Its neural matrix has destabilized completely."

Kim stared at it. It had been stable this past week, but Curval was right; it had degenerated badly. Even so, he wanted to go to it-to try and reason with it.

"It's dangerous," the Captain said. "I've already got two men in the hospital. If it comes at us my men have orders to stun it, but that may not be enough. It's very strong and its nervous system may not respond the same way as a human's."

Kim nodded, understanding what the Captain was really saying. He didn't want to take any risks. He wanted to kill it, before it did any further damage.

"What else did the Director say?"

"Reiss will be here within the hour," Curval answered. "Let him sort this one out."

Kim shook his head. "No. I can't do that." He sighed, then turned to the duty officer. "Give me your gun, Captain. I made it, I'll destroy it."

The Captain stared at Curval a moment, then, shrugging, unhol-stered his pistol and handed it to him.

Kim weighed it in his hand a moment, then, looking directly at the creature, began to walk toward it.

"Ravachol? Do you know who I am?"

It stood there, perfectly still, watching him approach. When Kim was only ten ch'i or so from it, it raised a hand, shielding its eyes, as if it were staring into brilliant sunlight.

"Kim? Is that you?"

"It's me."

It opened its mouth, hesitated, then shook its head. Looking down, it frowned, as if it didn't understand what had caused the mess that surrounded it. Its feet were leaking blood and there was a faint sparking down one side, the slightest hint of burning.

"It's . . . growing dark," it said, looking back at Kim, bewildered. "I can't . . ."

It seemed to freeze, then, with a tiny jerk, began to move again. Its eyes blinked violently, its left hand juddered, dropping the knife.

"You're not well," Kim said quietly. "You keep forgetting."

It nodded, but it was as if it only half understood. Curval was right. It had gone. There was nothing they could do for it now. Nothing but end its misery. He raised the gun.

"What are you doing?" it asked. "What is that?"

Release, Kim thought, and pulled the trigger.

The detonation shocked him. It was much louder than he'd imagined. He stared at his hand, then traced a line to where Ravachol had been standing. He was gone . . . no, he was down, there, beside the bench.

Kim stepped closer, then stood over the creature, setting the gun down beside it.

Where the bullet had hit its chest was a jagged hole through which a strange amalgam of wiring and organic matter could be glimpsed, silver and red. Locked into some obsolete program, its left leg madeclimbing movements in the air, while its eyes stared straight ahead. The smell was stronger now-the scent of burnt plastic mixed with burning flesh.

Kim crouched over it, pained by the sight, wanting to hold the thing and comfort it in its final moments, but something stopped him. It wasn't dying. You couldn't say that it was dying, for it had never really been alive. It had only seemed alive. But for once that distinction seemed meaningless. Ravachol had been more than a machine-more than a simple thing of wires and flesh. Kim hesitated, then, conscious that others were watching him, put his hand out and brushed the hair back from the android's forehead.

It was warm, just as a dying man was warm. And all its memories . . .

Even as the thought formed, Ravachol's eyes blinked and snapped shut. There was a tiny tremor through the body, then it was still.

Gone, he thought. It's gone. . . .

But where? Where did the soul of a machine depart to?

The thought disturbed him, darkening his thoughts, for just as he was conscious of having made Ravachol, he was conscious also that something-some force or creature greater than himself-had fashioned him. For the first time he had a strong, clear sense of it.

Copies, he thought, nodding to himself. We are all copies of some greater thing.

He stood, then walked back to where Curval was waiting.

"Are you all right?"

Kim shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I want to think about it."

Curval smiled sadly at him. "Maybe you should take the day off.

Have a break from it."

"No. We have to begin again. This morning. I want the body in the autopsy room by seven. We can take scans, slices . . . find out what went wrong. And next time"-Kim took a long, shivering breath- "next time we get it right."

Curval nodded, then touched his arm. "Okay. I'll get things moving straight away."

AT FIRST LIGHT Emily went down to the market on Fifty-one, walking through the echoing openness of Main as stallholders set up their barrows and old men sat on benches listening to the caged birds sing.

It was the time of day she liked best; the time when anything seemed possible. Each day was new, filled with possibility, and no matter how many times she had been disappointed, she had always welcomed the dawn.

At the Blue Pagoda tea house she took a seat at an empty table. Within an hour the place would be packed, but just now there were scarcely more than a dozen people there. Yu I, the proprietor, saw her and came across, smiling his gap-toothed smile and bowing to her, as if she were a princess, his hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves.

"Ra-chel," he said, his old eyes twinkling playfully. "Is a long time since you come."

"I've been busy, Lao Jen. I came back only last night. But I've missed this place. Your ch'a is renownedfor fifty stacks."

He bowed again, delighted by her compliment. "And what will you have, Nu Shih? A Sparrow Tongue, perhaps? Or a Water Fairy?"

She smiled broadly. "A T'ieh Lo'han would be nice, Yu I. A large chung. And some chiao tzu if you have any."

"Nu Shih . . ." He nodded, then backed away, hurrying off to fill her order.

From rails overhead more cages hung-elaborate things of painted wire. She looked up at them, listening to the birds, watching a tiny chaffinch puff out his chest. How he sang! So full of joy ... or was it avian pride? She smiled, then looked about her. At a nearby table a young, shaven-headed boy sat beside his grandfather. He was staring at her in that pure, unembarrassed way children have, his dark eyes big and round. Emily smiled at him then looked away.

Pockets of normality . . . that was what it was all reduced to these days. Brief moments-like this-of sanity before the mayhem began again.

A young waiter came across, setting a pale lavender chung beside her. He produced a rounded bowl and polished it on his sleeve before setting it before her.

"Thanks. . . ."

The young man nodded and turned away. Apart from Yu I few talked to her here. They were mainly Han, she Hung Mao, a big-nose barbarian. So it was these days. Tolerance was the most she might expect.

She poured, then lifted the mock-porcelain bowl, cupping it in both hands, enjoying its warmth, the strong scent of the "Iron Goddess of Mercy" reminding her of her youth-of times she had sat beside her father in places like this while he talked with his friends.

Was that why she came here? To renew that simple memory? To keep in touch with that earlier self? Or was it for the peace she found here and nowhere else?

She sighed, then took a long sip of her ch'a, swilling it about her mouth as the Han did, enjoying the simplicity of it.

The great world changed, yet these smaller, simpler things persisted. Small things. She nodded to herself, thinking of the horrors she had seen, the deaths she had been witness to. Yes, though empires fell, small things-those intensely human things-remained unchanged. A thousand years might pass and great emperors turn to dust in their tombs, but still in some small tea house in some corner of the world the old men would meet beneath the caged songbirds and sip ch'a and talk away the day.

The thought brought her comfort. Yesterday she had gone to see the gutted deck; had seen with her own eyes how cruel and indiscriminate the White T'ang's justice was.

The bastard, she thought, remembering the stink of the place, the pictures she had seen from the leaked security video. It had been awful, unbearable to watch. But necessary. For now she knew there was no option. She had to kill him. Had to, for the sake of them all. The only question now was how.

She sipped again, then set the bowl down. Yu I was coming across again, a large plate of the delicious dumplings in one hand, a small bowl of spicy sauce in the other."Chiao tzu," he said, grinning at her again. "If there is anything else, Nu Shih?"

"No, Lao jen, that's fine." She handed him a ten-yuan chip and closed his hand about it. "Buy your grandson something."

He grinned and nodded his thanks.

Alone again, she picked up one of the meat-filled dumplings with her chopsticks, savoring the delicious smell of it. As with the ch'a, this, too, was part of the ritual-this, too, she had first tasted with her father.

So it began, she thought, suddenly heavy of heart; yes, and so, perhaps, it ends.

Killing Lehmann-some said it was impossible, but nothing was impossible. She laughed and took a second dumpling from the plate, dipping it in the sauce, then popping it into her mouth, enjoying the mixture of soy pork, cabbage, and onion, even as she thought the problem through. No, killing him would not be hard-what was impossible was surviving the attempt.

She cleared the plate, then sat back. It had been good. She had forgotten how good. She turned, meaning to order a second plate-to indulge herself for once-and saw that Yu I and his waiters were gathered beneath one of the media screens, staring up at it. From where she sat she couldn't make out what the picture was, but after a moment a small cheer went up from the men, their faces suddenly lit up and laughing.

Yu I, seeing her, came across again. "You want more, Nu Shih?"

She handed him a five-yuan chip. "Yes, but tell me ... what was all that about? You seemed very excited."

The old man grinned and nodded, his delight evident. "It was good new, Nu Shih. Very good news indeed. It seems the great T'ang, Tsu Ma, is to be married!"

THE ANNOUNCEMENT was a simple one-Liang K'o Ting chih nu Shu-sun Shih li wei Luang-hou.

"Shu-sun, daughter of Liang K'o Ting, is hereby created Empress."

The imperial rescript was read out on the media channels and posted throughout the levels of City West Asia.

At Tsu Ma's palace at Astrakhan, there was a small ceremony. The prospective bride's father, Liang K'o Ting, approached Tsu Ma and knelt, pressing his forehead to the floor. Tsu Ma looked down at him from his throne and smiled, watching as he went through the san kuei chiu k'ou-the three kneelings and nine strikings of the head that was required before a Son of Heaven.

As Old Liang straightened up, Tsu Ma looked past him at Shu-sun, wondering how such a stick of a man had bred such a voluptuous daughter. Shu-sun noticed his attention and let her head fall slightly, blushing.

She was eighteen years old and fresh as a peach. Just looking at her made his blood race, and when she looked up at him and smiled . . .

He turned his attention to Old Liang again. The man was thanking him for the honor of elevating his daughter to the imperial dignity. He listened, hearing the old man out, then bestowed on him the button of First Rank, given by right to the hou-fu, the father of the Empress, and appointing him an officer of the imperial bodyguard. And then it was done, the great family seals placed upon the betrothal agreement, all speeches made.

There was laughter and raised glasses, yet at the back of the hall, unnoticed by Tsu Ma or his futurein-laws, a young man slipped away, crossing the great hall swiftly, silently.

At the doorway, Tsu Kung-chih turned, looking back at the smiling group surrounding the throne, his eyes burning with resentment. Then, his face set, his right hand gripping the handle of his dagger, he strode out and ran down the echoing corridors to his rooms, slamming the door behind him.

TSU TAG CHU reined in his pony at the cliffs edge and sat forward in his saddle, looking out across the calm sea's surface. Shen, his mount, moved his head restlesly, then bent to crop. The youth reached down to smooth its long, sleek neck before straightening up again, sighing heavily, thinking of the ceremony that morning. It was here, only a week ago, that Tsu Ma had spoken to them. Here that his half-brother Kung-chih's sickness had begun.

He dismounted and sat at the cliffs edge, his legs dangling over the drop. Far below the water slopped over and around the tips of jagged rocks. It was high tide and the sluggish movement of the current seemed like the shallow breath of a sleeper. The water was thick and glassy green and the dark, vague shapes of rocks beneath the surface seemed more like shadows than hard realities. Tao Chu took a handful of stones from the bare patch of earth beside him and sprinkled them over the edge, watching the diffuse pattern of ripples spread on the rising, falling back of the water.

He looked down at himself. Dust was spattered across his knee-length boots. He raised a leg to brush the earth from the dark leather, bracing his heel against a large, upjutting stone. Then, taking a white silk handkerchief from the pocket of his riding jacket, he spat on it and began to rub the shine back into the leather. He had just leaned forward to breathe on it when the stone moved and he tilted forward.

There was no time to save himself. Where his foot had been the cliff had fallen away and he found himself tumbling headfirst toward the water, his arms flailing the air. He made a sound, more of surprise than fear, then hit the surface hard, all breath knocked from him, the sudden, shocking coldness of the water making him gasp and try to take a watery breath, but some last flicker of reason made him choke back the instinct.

He struggled upward, his mind dark, in turmoil, his lungs on fire, a searing pain in his side, then broke water, coughing violently and, floundering against a rock, held on for dear life, the waves washing over him.

It was some while before he came fully to his senses. He was still coughing and the pain in his side had grown worse. His teeth were chattering now and he realized that if he didn't get to shore soon he would die from exposure. He turned in the water, trying to make out where best to swim for, but as he did the pain grew so severe, he had to close his eyes, almost blacking out.

Carefully he felt beneath the waterline, tracing the wound tenderly with his fingers. He shuddered. It was bad. Very bad. But he wasn't helping himself by staying here. Gritting his teeth, bracing himself against the pain he knew would come, he began to swim, leaning over to one side, doing a kind of lopsided doggie-paddle that took the strain off his injured side.

Several times on that long and painful swim he thought of giving up, of relaxing and letting himself be sucked beneath the cold, clear water, but something kept him from succumbing, kept him doggedly pressing on, until, at last, he crawled up onto the beach, the outward wash forming long ribbons of silver laced with red at the side of his legs. Slowly, feeling close to exhaustion now, he pulled himself up out of the water, then turned to examine the gash properly.

The wound looked smaller than it had felt, and not so deep. Miraculously it had missed the bone. The rock had sliced into the flesh of his left side between the edge of the pelvis and the outer cage of the ribs.The seawater had washed it clean and the flow of blood from it had eased.

He had been lucky. Very, very lucky.

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Tao Chu smiled. Somehow he had missed the rocks.

Somehow he had fallen between those hard, cruel points of darkness. As he rested there, taking long, sweet breaths of the salty air, a sense of elation, of pure joy at having survived his own stupidity, washed over him. He laughed.

He was still laughing when a call came from the rocks overlooking the small bay he had swum to.

Awkwardly, still in some pain, he turned and looked. Three men, servants of his uncle, were standing there. One of them waved, calling out his reassurances as they began to hurry down the slanting, rock-strewn face toward him.

Tao Chu let them lift him and carry him carefully back to the cliffs summit. There one of them examined the wound again, wincing to himself, and removed his jacket, tearing it into strips which he then bound about Tao Chu. Then they began to carry him again, hurrying now. They were halfway across the long, flat stretch of grass that led to the orchards when Tao Chu saw his mount.

"Stop!" he cried. They set him down, then made small murmurs of protest when he told them to catch and bring his pony. There was a moment's muttering between them then one of them scurried off and, after some trouble, brought the reluctant, skittish pony back.

Tao Chu stared at the beast, delighted. "Now help me mount her,"

he ordered, struggling up into a sitting position. This time there was open protest from the men, but Tao Chu insisted, his voice taking on the tone of command. The men looked among themselves again, then shrugged. One held the horse steady while the others helped Tao Chu into the saddle.

Fresh blood stained the bindings at his side, but Tao Chu felt strangely better now that he was mounted.