The insult was barely out before Berrenson found himself sprawling backward. He sat up, groaning, blood dripping from his nose and from the gash in his top lip. Fox looked on, astonished.

"Nothing," Tolonen said, standing over him threateningly. "You shall have nothing. You or any of your pack of jackals."

Berrenson dabbed at his broken nose with the collar of his silks, then glared up at the old man. "You'll regret this, Tolonen. Before I'm done GenSyn won't be worth a fucking five-^uan note."

Tolonen laughed. "Is that a threat, Shih Berrenson? Because if it is, you'd better be prepared to carry it out. But let me warn you, you loathsome little insect. If I find you've said one word that's detrimental to the Company or made one deal that could harm my ward's interests, then I'll come for you . . .

personally, you understand me? And next time it won't be just your nose I'll break, it'll be every bone in that obese tradesman's body of yours." He leaned in close, pushing his face almost into Berrenson's.

"Understand me?"

Berrenson nodded. - "Good. Now go. And don't bother me again." * ..

KIM WAITED AS THE DOOR hissed back, then stepped through, his breath warm in the protectivesuit. This was a secure area and as the door closed behind him, sealing itself airtight, a fine mist enveloped him, killing any bacteria he might have brought in from outside.

Inside, beyond the second airtight door, was the garden he had had built at the center of the labs. There, beneath a fake blue sky that was eternally summer, were the two dozen special rosebushes he had had planted in the rich, dark earth that covered the whole of the thirty-by-thirty area to a depth of three feet.

As the second door slid back, Kim stepped inside, the microfine filters in the helmet allowing him to smell the sweet scent of the roses. He stopped a moment, eyes closed, enjoying the early-morning warmth, the strange freshness of the place, then walked on, making his way down the lines of bushes.

SimFic had spent more than fifteen million yuan building this place, simply to humor him. The thought of that-of the waste-had worried him at first, but then he'd begun to see it from their viewpoint. Here he could think-here, undisturbed, he could put flesh to the bone of speculation. And thinking was what he was paid to do.

He smiled, seeing the first of the webs glimmering wetly in the fake sunlight. It was beautiful. Delicately, indescribably beautiful. It was as if it touched some blueprint deep inside him and struck a resonating chord. He crouched beside it, staring at its delicate symmetry. It was an orb web, spun by the simple European garden spider, Araneus diadematus.

Yesterday he had watched her spin this web, making first the spokes and then the central spiral. A broader "guide" spiral-a kind of scaffolding-had followed, and then the great spiral itself, the "bridge lines" as they were called. He had watched fascinated as she wove and gummed the threads, her tiny rounded body balanced on the scaffolding as she plucked the gummed line to spread the tiny droplets equidis-tantly along its length. When he had first seen it he had thrilled to the discovery, recognizing once more the importance of the laws of resonance and how they governed the natural world-from the largest things to the smallest-and it had brought back to him a moment when he had witnessed a great spiderlike machine hum and produce a chair from nothingness. So long ago that seemed, yet the moment was linked to this, resonating down the years. Memories . . . they, too, obeyed the laws of resonance.

He moved on. Beside the orb web spiders he had others-scaffold-web spiders like Nesticidae that had settled in a tiny rocky cave he had had built at the far end of the garden, and triangular-web spiders like Hyptiotes. But his favorite was the elegant Dinopis, a net-throwing spider with the face of a fairy-tale ogre. How often he had watched her construct her net between her back legs and then wait, with a patience that seemed limitless, to snare any insect foolish enough to pass below.

Insects had long been banned from City Earth. The great tyrant Tsao Ch'un had had them eradicated from the levels, building intricate systems of filters and barriers to keep them out. But here, in this single airtight room, he, Kim Ward, had brought them back. Using stored DNA, GenSyn had rebuilt these once-common species specially for him: these and their prey-ants and beetles, centipedes, ladybirds and flies, silk moths and aphids.

It had not been easy, however. He had first needed to get Li Yuan's permission. A special Edict had been passed, cosigned by all three T'ang, while SimFic, for their part, had guaranteed that there would be no breaches of the strict quarantine procedures.

He looked about him, feeling a brief contentment. Here he had mused on many things: on the physical nature of memory; on the aging of cells and the use of nanotechnology to induce the rapid healing of damaged tissue; on the duplication of neurons; and, most recently, on the creation of a safe and stable intelligence-enhancement drug. Each time he had come here knowing no answer, and each time the tranquillity of the garden had woven its magic spell, conjuring something from the depths of him.But now it was almost done, his time in exile finished. In four weeks he could walk from here, a free man again, the pulsing band gone from around his neck. If he chose.

He reached out and brushed the delicate, dew-touched petals of a bloodred rose with his gloved fingers, watching the pearled drops fall. It was all one great ballet-a cosmic dance, governed by immutable laws, and he the key, the focus of it all. He saw how it all worked, how it could be shaped and used.

And yet some part of him held back- some dark and quiet part of him refused to use that knowledge.

He expelled a long, slow breath, then looked about him, as if seeing it all for the first time. Thus far he had but scratched the surface of the real. SimFic had asked and he had answered. But their questions had been small and insignificant . . . unimaginative. It was as if they couldn't see the possibilities, whereas he ...

He frowned, not liking the shape of his thoughts. Yet it was necessary to face the truth. Intellectually he was their superior. That made him no better than they-not in simple human terms-but it did make him different, and he was convinced that that difference had been granted him for a reason. The twists and turns of his existence-his very survival-all of it meant something. He had been raised up from the darkness for a purpose, and now it was time, perhaps, to discover just what that purpose was-to ask himself the big questions, the questions that only he could frame.

He crossed the room and stood before the long metal cabinet that was attached to the wall. Taking a long-stemmed key from the belt of his suit he fitted it into the lock and turned it twice. There was a moment's delay and then a series of tiny metal doors in the side of the cabinet clicked open.

Kim stood back, watching the insects tumble out in a spill of darkness. They were freshly fashioned, their neutered forms made for a single purpose-to be eaten by his spiders. It was a disturbing thought. Like so much else he had created they were little more than toys- distractions from the real business of life.

He watched them flap and whirr and scuttle and felt his inner self curl up in aversion.

They moved, yet they were dead.

"Kim?"

He looked up at the camera lens overhead. "Yes?"

"Curval wants to speak with you about the new figures."

"Tell him I'll be with him in a while."

He looked down. The real reason he had come here this morning was to see if he could focus himself for long enough to make a decision about whether he should stay with SimFic in some capacity or go his own way. But, as ever, there were too many things to be attended to, to allow him time to think it through properly. The decision would be of the moment. They would ask, he would reach inside himself and . . .

well, it would be there, on his tongue. Until then he didn't know.

He retraced his steps. As the door hissed closed behind him and a faint mist enveloped him, one final thought came to him.

Does she still think of me? Does she even remember me?

JELKA HAD HEARD her father shouting, had heard the commotion in the entrance hall as the two men left, but it was an hour before he emerged from his rooms, wearing his Marshal's uniform, his face composed as if nothing had happened.She greeted him in the atrium at the front of the Mansion, walking around him to inspect him, just as she'd done to the boy. It was unnecessary, of course-Steward Lo would never have let him leave his rooms unless he were immaculate-but it had become almost a ritual between them.

"Welir-fee asked.

She touched his arm. "You look very smart, Father. It's not often you wear full dress uniform these days.

What's the occasion?"

"I . . ." He looked down at his wrist timer, then shook his head. "Gods! Is that the time? Look, sweetheart, I have to go. I'm late already."

She kissed his cheek. "Go on. Hurry now. I'll see you when you get back."

He smiled. "Look after Pauli, neh?"

She nodded, then sighed, watching him disappear through the open doorway, but a moment later he was back, smiling apologetically.

"I almost forgot. The final guest list for the party . . . it's on my desk. If you'd check it to make sure we've not left anyone out."

"I'll make a start on it at once."

He returned her smile. "Good."

She watched him go, then turned, gazing down the hallway toward the big picture window at the end with its view of the gardens at the center of the Mansion, then shook her head. How she hated this place. Five years she had lived here now, and still she felt like an intruder. Not that she had ever liked this house, with its dark walls and its heavy furnishings, its monumental statuary and its thick, oppressive tapestries.

No. The ghosts of the Ebert family still presided here and their fleshy imprint lay on everything. This was their place, like the lair of some strange, half-furred, feral creatures. And for her there was the further memory of her betrothal to the son of the house, Hans.

Jelka shuddered. It had been there, in the Great Hall, just to the right of where she stood. She walked across, then stopped in the doorway, looking in. Nothing had changed. The jet-black tiles gleamed with polish, while between squat red pillars, on lush green walls that reminded her of primal forests, hung the same huge canvases of ancient hunts that had hung there on the day she'd been betrothed to him.

She closed her eyes, remembering. In the half-dark, the machine had floated toward her like a giant bloated egg, silent, two brutish GenSyn giants guiding it. Its outer surface had been like smoked glass, but a tightly focused circle of light directly beneath it had glimmered like a living presence in the depths of the floor. She had stood there as in a dream, rooted with fear, watching it come, like Fate, implacable and unavoidable.

She made a small movement of her head, surprised by the vividness of the memory. So much had happened since that day-so many had died or been betrayed-and yet she, Jelka Tolonen, had survived. She had danced her way to life.

Turning, she noticed that the door to her father's study was open. Steward Lo was inside, tidying up after his master.

Looking up, Lo saw her. "Nu Shi . . ."She went across, looking about her as Lo finished his chores. Even here there was little sign of her father.

He had changed nothing. Bookshelves filled three walls, but those had been there before he'd come and the leather-bound books that lined them had been undisturbed for twenty, maybe thirty years, the Ebert crest stamped into the title page of every one. Only the personal items on the big oak desk that filled the far corner of the room were her father's.

She went across and began searching for the list. There were letters from old friends and bulky files with the S-within-G logo of GenSyn stamped into their bright blue covers, a note from General Rheinhardt about the next Security Council meeting, and her father's desk diary, open at today's page. She searched a moment longer, surprised to find nothing, then stopped, her eyes caught by the final entry in the diary.

She shook her head, then read it once again. No, she hadn't been mistaken: there it was, in his own handwriting: SimFic Labs with Li Yuan. 12 p.m. Kim Ward and Work-in-Progress.

He hadn't told her. He hadn't told her!

She eased back, an unfocused anger gripping her, then, clenching both her fists, she called for inner calm.

Slowly, very slowly, it came to her.

So ... it was still going on. Seven years-seven long years he had kept this up. But now it had to stop.

She let out a long breath, then looked across the study. Steward Lo was watching her.

"Are you all right, Nu Shi?"

She let her voice project her inner calm. "I'm fine, Steward Lo. It's just that my father said he'd left a list ... a guest list for my Coming-of-Age party."

"Ah . . ." Lo came across and, with a bow to her, reached past her and took a slender file from among the GenSyn papers.

"Here," he said, dusting it off and handing it to her, bowing again. "It is not long now, neh, Nu Shi?"

"Not long," she answered, nodding her thanks. Then, moving past him, she hastened from the study.

Back-in her room, she sat on the edge of her bed, the file in her lap, letting her thoughts grow still. They would all be here, of course-all of those important names from Above society one might expect to turn up for the Coming-of-Age party of the Marshal's daughter, but there was only one name she was interested in. She counted ten then opened it, scanning the list quickly with her finger.

Most of the names were familiar-Security mostly-but some, she knew, were there because one could not hold such a party and not invite such people. She would have to go through it more carefully later on, but for now . . .

She came to the end. Nothing. There was no sign of his name.

So it was true. He really was keeping his word. Very well. She should not really have expected other of him. But this was her party, her Coming-of-Age, and there was one person, more than any other, she would have there on that day. Kim Ward.

She went through to her study and sat at her desk, leaning across to take the ink brush from its stand.

Inking it, she tried to remember the last time she had seen him, after his Wiring Operation. Seven years had passed since that day, and never, in all that time, had she stopped thinking of him, wondering about him, {preparing herself for him.She took the list and wrote in his name, there between Wang Ling, the Minister for Production, and her father's friend, Colonel Wareham.

There! she thought. Yet even as the ink dried, she knew it would not end with that. He would fight her over it, she knew, for it was the one thing they had always fought over.

Damn you, you old bugger! she thought, angry at him yet loving him all the same. Why can't you want what I want just this once?

But she knew it was no good wishing. Her father was like a rock, impervious to time and good opinion.

She would have to face him out on this. Tonight, perhaps, or tomorrow.

She shivered, frustration and anger threatening to drive her to distraction. Then, controlling herself again, she switched on her desktop comset and turned to the front of the list, determined he would have no other reason to find fault with her.

TOLONEN GAZED OUT of the window of the cruiser, then looked back at his T'ang, answering him finally.

"I don't know, Chieh Hsia. I think you should try other means before taking such drastic action."

Li Yuan gestured wearily. "I wish I could, but time is against us. Each day sees the man grow stronger at my expense. The situation in Africa is worsening and my armies there are restless. If I do nothing, things will simply deteriorate until . . . well, until Li Min will merely have to raise his voice and the whole thing will come tumbling down."

Tolonen sighed, troubled by such talk. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but surely things are not so bad? We have had peace these past three years. The House has been docile, food rations have increased . . ."

Li Yuan huffed out a breath, exasperated. "Can't you see it, Knut? The peace you talk of, it's a fragile, brittle thing. No. Time is running out. Our options are dwindling. We must either fight the bastard now or hand the City over to him."

"Then send Karr to negotiate with him, as I suggested. Have him offer Li Min a temporary peace-something that'll give us time to draw up a proper plan of campaign. To fight him now, without preparation"-Tolonen made a bitter face-"it would be madness!"

Li Yuan sat back, smoothing his chin nervously. Tolonen, watching him, saw the gesture and looked down, reminded of the young man's father, Li Shai Tung. So the old man had looked in those months before his death-his eyes haunted, his face made gaunt with worry. And maybe Yuan was right-maybe things were worse than they seemed-but to hit out blindly, simply for something to do ...

well, he had said it already: it was madness.

Tolonen sighed. "Besides, there's always Ward. If he delivers the goods . . ."

Li Yuan nodded distractedly, then met Tolonen's eyes again. "I understand you had some visitors this morning?"

"Ah, that."

"Is there a problem, Knut? Something I can help you with?"

Tolonen gave a short laugh. "Nothing I can't deal with, Chieh Hsia.""No . . ." Li Yuan stared at him a moment, then laughed. "I doubt there's anything you couldn't deal with."

They were both silent awhile, then Tolonen spoke.

"Do you think Ward will sign up again?"

"For SimFic?" Li Yuan considered a moment, then shrugged. "It's hard to say. One thing is for certain, he doesn't need the money. I am advised he's worth close on four hundred and fifty million, with the royalties on jSimFic products he's had a hand in, that's likely to treble within the next five years. If I were in Reiss's position I would be looking beyond financial incentives."

Tolonen stared at his hands, suddenly uncomfortable. "He's a strange one, neh?"

Li Yuan nodded. "It must be strange, being as he is."

Tolonen hesitated, then looked up. "What do you think of him as a person?"

Li Yuan frowned. The question was unexpected. "I ... respect him. His talent is formidable . . .

frightening. I can't begin to imagine how he thinks. It's as if he's thinking in a different direction to the rest of us. Rather like Shepherd."

Tolonen was leaning forward now, his face set, waiting.