CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE.

At One Stride Comes the Dark.

K.

IM STOOD AT THE WINDOW, looking out at the night. The sea was still, a three-quarter moon floating high above it in a clear, blue-black sky. To his right, beyond the high brick wall of the garden, the pine trees bordering the cliffs were dark and still with a different kind of stillness to the sea's, a brooding mystery he had never fathomed.

It was just after four. Downstairs Jelka was tending to her father. He had stood there earlier, watching them, seeing how the old man looked to her, as a young child looks to its mother, totally dependent, and once more had felt a wave of regret that he had not acted earlier to bring Tolonen home.

Home. Standing there in the silence of the old house, he realized that, for the first time since he'd come here, it actually felt like home. Bringing the old man back-reuniting Tolonen with his daughter- had been the final, necessary act. And though the old man was dying, to die here where he belonged was somehow right. If he had died back there in that darkened room . . .

Kim shuddered, imagining it. If that had happened, Jelka would never have forgiven herself. She would have blamed herself for her father's death, and maybe part of her would have been forever denied to him.

As it was, the circle had been joined, the breach healed, and though it worried him to see her try to make up for the lost years in such a frantic way, he could understand it.

Such peace and yet such sadness he was feeling. Peace that he had at last done the right thing; sadness that Tolonen must inevitably die.

480.

And maybe 1 could have prevented even that, he thought, remembering how relentlessly Old Man Lever had pursued him to work on his Immortality Project. Yet, sad as it was, he knew this death was necessary. For the old must always go, to let the new life breathe-to give it room.

Yes, and he'd seen how the old man's eyes had sparkled with pleasure at the sight of his grandson. Why, Sampsa had been a revelation, sitting with the old man at his bedside, reading from the Kalevala and talking of the old times. And after, how the boy had sat there, watching as his grandfather slept, his tiny fingers holding the golden fingers of the old man's artificial hand.

He sighed, then yawned, realizing just how long a day it had been. Only a few years back it had seemed he could do without sleep at all, but now . . .

It's the air here, he thought, and smiled, turning from the window and looking back into the darkened room. It was only then that he realized the summons pad on the corner comset was flashing. He had turned off the audio earlier, in case it disturbed the old man.

He went across and closed the door, then, putting on a lamp, sat at the tiny desk and pressed the pad.

There was a delay and then the screen lit up. It was Karr.

"Gregor?" he said surprised. "I thought-" "Kim! Thank the gods! It's chaos here. They're active!"

Active? Then he understood. "The copies?"Karr nodded. "We've reports coming in all the time. The City's in a state of complete panic!"

"Hold on," Kim said. "Back up a bit and tell me what's been going on. When you say 'active,' what do you mean?"

"Stabbing, shootings, bombings. Maximum chaos. Maximum nasti-ness. Imagine five hundred psychos going ape-shit at once and you've just about got it."

Kim swallowed. "Five hundred?"

"I use the figure lightly. We don't yet know the full extent of it, but at last count we had over five hundred and eighty separate cases reported. And we're not talking single murders. Some of these bastards are taking out forty, fifty people apiece!"

Aiya . . . Then he'd been wrong. Wrong about both the scale and purpose of this instrusion. He'd thought their role was to be a passive one. But this ...

"I've had to annouce a City-wide curfew," Karr continued. "Not that anyone wants to be out walking the corridors with this going on."

"No . . ." Kim thought a moment, then: "Do you need me there?"

Karr laughed bleakly. "No. Stay there. It's probably the only safe place in the Enclave right now. We've had beserkers even here, in Bremen. These things . . ." The big man shuddered. "The stories I've heard are awful. Fathers turning against their families, trusted neighbors going from apartment to apartment and slaughtering old friends in their beds. The youngest we've had reported so far was a girl of six. She diced her whole family while they slept. What's made it worse is that it happened at so early an hour. By the time the alarm went out it was too late to do anything effective. Most of the victims didn't even wake."

"But now?"

"Now the whole City's awake. And terrified. Watching their screens and wondering if they're next. It's like these things are being triggered in waves. The first wave was the biggest, but reports are coming in of new ones all the time. That's the worst of it, perhaps. The uncertainty. The not knowing when it's going to end, or who's going to turn out to be one of these psychos. Can you imagine it, Kim? All of those people at home, behind locked doors, watching their loved ones and wondering if they're really real and not one of these things!"

"DeVore," Kim said. "It has to be DeVore."

"Yes," Karr said, admitting it for the first time. "It's what I said to Li Yuan when he reappointed me.

Lehmann's a bastard, sure enough, but his imagination doesn't run to this kind of thing. This has DeVore's mark on it."

"So the thing you killed all those years ago-"

"Was a copy. It was what Tolonen always suspected. By the way, how is he?"

"Better for being here, I think. But look, is there anything I can do?"

Karr sighed, then shook his head. "Just pray for us, Kim. Pray to all the gods you know that we'll still be here come daylight!"

THE PALACE WAS SLOWLY WAKING. In the kitchens servants were preparing the morning'smeals, while in the stables the grooms had long since cleaned out their charges' stalls and fed them. In the broad corridor leading to Li Yuan's apartments a servant walked, a towel over his right arm, a bowl of heated water balanced between his hands. His step was measured, orderly, as it ever was, but this time as he approached the great doors, Nan Ho, the Chancellor, stepped from the shadows to block his way.

"Master," the man said, bowing his head.

"I'll take the water," Nan Ho said, putting out his hands to take the bowl.

The servant glanced up from beneath his brows. "But it is beneath you, Master. Besides-"

"Give me the bowl," Nan Ho insisted.

He saw the bowl begin to fall, the servant go for the knife which, until that moment, had been hidden in the folds of his shirt, and knew he had been wise to take precautions. As he fell back, two guards stepped forward and, with the minimum of fuss, disarmed the servant, forcing him to the ground.

"Should we scan him, Master?" one of the soldiers asked, looking up at Nan Ho from where he crouched, his knee firmly in the servant's back.

"No," Nan Ho answered, picking up the discarded knife. "Whether he is or isn't, what's certain is he meant our Master harm." He bent over the servant and, grabbing his topknot, pulled back his head so that he could see his eyes. It was just as Karr had said; it was as if the man were mad. That smile.

Steeling himself, he took the knife and drew it across the creature's throat. Man or copy, he could not be allowed to survive. So they must deal with their enemies from henceforth, for to be weak . . .

Nan Ho threw the bloody knife down. The creature spasmed, then lay still.

"I want a squad posted here right away," he said, looking to the most senior of the two-a sergeant-he had rousted from his bed. "No one is to enter the great T'ang's rooms without my permission."

The two men stood and bowed. "Master!"

"Okay. You ... go now and bring reinforcements! You . . . you will stay here until your comrade returns!"

"And the body, Master?" the sergeant asked, looking to the still-bleeding corpse.

"Leave it," Nan Ho said, feeling the bile rise in his throat. "It will serve as a reminder and a warning, lest others think the path to our Master's door be such an easy one."

CATHERINE SAT ON THE SOFA, the art folder in her lap, drinking. Sergey had been out all night.

Out with one of his women, no doubt. There was nothing new about that. It was just . . .

She looked at the muted wall screen, then, forcing the glass to her lips, drained the last of the liqueur. It wasn't her habit to drink, and not this awful stuff, but for once she'd needed something.

The news was awful. All of that death. All of that senseless violence. It made one think that the world was ending. And perhaps that was no bad thing, for perhaps it was easier to end than to endure.

She set the glass down and turned her head, listening, but the child slept on. That at least was a blessing.

She turned back, opening the folder.

It had been years since she'd looked at these. Years since she'd felt the urge. But tonight she had taken them down from the top of the wardrobe where she'd put them shortly after her wedding.The first thing that struck her were the colors. She had forgotten- forgotten how Ben had made her look at things; forgotten how he'd pointed out to her the force behind the shapes. These-these paintings at the top-were the last she had done before she'd given up. The last and the best. Impressions.

Sketches of things from memory. Sketches of him.

She stopped and moved her head back slightly, squinting at the painting. It was of Ben's face, side on, the light from just behind.

Or half his face, she thought, realizing she had not finished it. The half I thought I knew.

Sergey had never seen these. In all probability he didn't even know they existed. Besides, he was too preoccupied with his own work-with his own obsessive version of this face.

Ben. Ben Shepherd. How strange that she should think of him now, after so many years. Or maybe not so strange. After all, Sergey's attack on him was fresh in mind. He had tried to keep it from her, but she had overheard things, seen the bitterness in her husband's face as he was talking of Ben's work.

All that hatred, she thought, amazed that it had lasted all these years. Should one admire such a purity of purpose that nursed a hatred over fifteen years, or should one pity it? Whichever, it was certain that her husband hated Ben. Hated him for breaking his hand. Hated him, too, for having made her love him.

And herself? Did she still hate him?

She lifted the canvas, revealing the next work. This was a sketch-a pen-and-ink drawing of two lovers, their naked bodies abandoned to sleep after lovemaking. She sighed, remembering the day she'd done this. It was the day she had decided to accept Sergey's offer of marriage.

Yes, and she knew why. She had drawn this to purge herself. To finally accept that this was what she'd seen-Ben and his sister, Meg, asleep in his bed. . . .

But that was no answer. Did she hate him still?

There was a sudden thumping on the outer door, the sound of someone trying to force his way in.

"Cath-rine! Cath-rine, open this fucking door!"

She jumped with shock, then closed the folder. It was Sergey. He was back at last, and raging drunk by the sound of it.

"Cath-rine? The gods fuck you, woman! Get off your ass and open this fucking door!"

Quickly she hid the folder. Then, taking a long breath to calm herself, she went out into the hallway.

"Cath-rine!" There was another thump, then a murmured "Shit! Where is that fucking woman!"

She went across and reached up, drawing the bolt. Then, fearing the worst, knowing how angry he got when he was drunk, she undid the catch and moved back sharply.

Nothing. She frowned. Had he fallen asleep? She moved closer, trying to peek around the door. Then, very slowly, it began to slide back.

"Sergey?" she began, then caught her breath.

"Catherine. It's been a long time. Can I come in?"

"Ben . . ."It was as if she had conjured a ghost. She moved back, letting him enter.

She closed the door, bolted it again, then turned, looking at him.

"These are good. They're Sergey's, I assume."

He was holding one of Sergey's heads. Three of them rested on the table in the hallway. Carved from black marble, each depicted Ben's face in various degrees of torment.

"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Why did you mimic him?"

He put the head down, smiled at her. "Why did you let me in?"

She shrugged, then moved past him, returning to the living room. He followed.

"I often wondered," he said, looking about him at the room. "I thought his father was rich."

She switched the screen off, then turned, facing him again. "He was, once. But he died penniless. Sergey makes his own way in the world."

"Ah . . ." He stared at her, taking in the changes time had wrought in her, then smiled. She had forgotten how green his eyes were; forgotten the darkness behind the green.

"Do you want a drink?"

He shook his head. "I want you."

"No."

It wasn't possible. Too much time had passed. Too much had happened to them both.

He stepped across, taking both her hands in his. Then, without a word, he picked her up and carried her out into the hallway.

"The child . . ." she said softly, but he wasn't listening. He took her through, into the darkness of the end room where she slept, and laid her on the bed.

"What if Sergey comes?" she whispered, as he pulled her blouse up over her head.

"Sergey's not coming," he said, pausing to kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth, his hands smoothing her naked flanks. "Sergey's sleeping it off at his club. I saw him there. He won't be home for hours."

"Ben . . ." Gently she pushed his face back away from hers. "Ben, we can't do this. What happened then . . .".

He did not answer her. Instead, his hands went to her breasts and cupped them, his thumbs caressing her nipples. Again his mouth was on her throat.

"Ben ... Ah, Ben . . ."