Neville, watching him, raised an eyebrow, then looked to Reiss, who nodded.

"You want to hear our offer before you eat, or after?"

Kim took a menu, scanned it, then set it aside. "Let's order, then you can tell me what you've got in mind."

"Okay." Reiss looked to the Head Steward. "My usual, Chang, medium rare, and a bottle of GoldenEmperor. A magnum. The '98 if you have it."

"I'll have the same," Kim said, "but rare. And just water for me, thanks." He looked at Reiss. "No offense, but I'll get nothing done tomorrow if I drink tonight."

"I understand. But you don't mind ..."

"No." Kim smiled broadly. "Some people can take their drink. Me . . ." he laughed. "Anyway, Jack, what are you having?"

Neville looked up, surprised and flattered to be addressed by his first name. "I think I'll have the rainbow trout. I don't think I've ever tasted it." He laughed. "In fact, I didn't know it still existed."

"It doesn't," Kim said, as the Steward withdrew. "At least, not the real thing. That's been extinct some two centuries now. But it's as good as, so they say. GenSyn have been making great strides these past few years, bringing back a lot of the old species. You've seen the ads."

Neville nodded, again surprised that Kim kept up with such things. "Does anything escape your notice?"

Kim laughed. "Not much. I like to keep abreast of developments. It makes my task easier if I know I'm not duplicating things. And I like to keep up with the latest media trends. I'm told you're something of an innovator in that field."

Neville looked down, a faint blush at his neck. Reiss, beside him, beamed with an almost parental pride.

"He's a good man," Reiss answered. "We expect much of him. That's why I asked him to come up with a package we could offer you."

"I see." Kim sat back, surprised that the Machine hadn't told him. In fact, now that he came to think of it, the thing had been behaving very strangely these past few weeks. Almost as if it were conscious.

Kim looked down. No. That wasn't possible. He'd seen just how difficult it was to create even the most basic functioning intelligence in a machine. It simply wasn't possible that a machine-however large, however complex-could develop consciousness. Not on its own.

Neville was watching him, fascinated. "What is it?"

Kim laughed. "Sorry. I was doing it again, wasn't I?"

"Doing what?"

"Thinking."

"Ah . . ." Neville nodded, then, with a glance at Reiss, leaned toward Kim. "You want to hear our offer?"

Kim nodded, strangely relaxed now that the moment was here.

"The bad news-" Neville grinned-"the bad news is that you're no longer to be an employee of the Company."

Kim laughed. "And the good news?"

Neville reached beside him and took a slender folder from the empty chair, then handed it across.

Kim hesitated, then opened it up."You don't have to answer now," Reiss said, sitting back as the waiter placed the ice bucket on the table and lifted a magnificent-looking golden bottle from within. "You'll want to think things over, I'm sure."

Kim nodded. "I see." He scanned the two sheets quickly, then put the folder down, watching as the waiter uncapped the honey-gold bottle and poured an ice-chilled glass for Reiss. "And if I were to ask for a Mansion?" Reiss smiled and lifted his glass. "You have one in mind?" Kim shrugged, then looked back at the folder. His own Company, that was what they were offering. A subsidiary of SimFic, yet big enough to compete on its own terms in the market. He shivered inwardly. Once before he had been in such a position. Once before he had tried to make a go of it on his own-and failed. But this time it would be different. This time he would have the giant SimFic Company at his back, protecting him, keeping him from being swallowed up. Yes, and this time there would be no circle of Old Men trying to pull him down and destroy him. It was a tempting proposition.

He watched Reiss sip and then grunt his satisfaction. The waiter poured again, filling Neville's glass.

Neville nodded his thanks, then lifted his glass, toasting Kim.

"To you, Kim. Whatever you decide."

CHAPTER THREE.

Wives.

pE I K ' u N G had opened only a dozen or so letters-placing each unread in the tray beside her-when the handwriting on one made her frown and pause. She turned the single sheet over, then, seeing the signature, the family seal at the foot of the page, caught her breath. She sat back, her face drained.

Tsung Ye stared at her, alarmed. "Mistress? Are you all right?"

She waved him away, then turned the page, reading it from the top right column, concentrating fiercely on the neat handwritten Mandarin.

"The nerve . . ." she said after a moment, giving the paper an impatient rustle. Why she had a mind to call the bitch right now! How dare she write to him!

Fei Yen . . . The letter was from Li Yuan's first wife, Yin Fei Yen.

She brought her fist down hard, making everything on the desk jump, then stood, her whole body trembling now with anger. Crossing to the window, she summoned her secretary to her. Tsung Ye hurried across, his face troubled by the sudden change in his mistress.

She rested her left hand against the cool, rain-beaded glass and took a calming breath, looking out across the Easter Gardens toward the stables. It would not do to act too hastily. No. She must act correctly or not at all.

She looked down at the paper in her other hand and shook it angrily. Why, the woman had even had the impudence to mention her bastard son! After all she'd done! Pei K'ung shuddered. She felt like burning the letter or ripping it into tiny shreds, but that was no solution. No. It had to be answered. There would be no peace for her until it was.

She stopped, staring at the letter, struck suddenly by the familiarity of its tone, the presumption of afriendship, and felt herself go cold. What if this wasn't the first letter Fei Yen had written him? What if the wording was a pretense-a kind of code between them? What if they met often?

Her throat was suddenly dry, her heart beating fast.

Nan Ho. Nan Ho would know. . . . Yes, but even if he did . . .

She crumpled the paper into a ball and let it fall.

Was he still seeing her? When he went away on business, did she go to him then? Did she still sleep with him?

Pei K'ung closed her eyes, tormented by the thought even as she told herself how unlikely all this was. Or was that true? Who would tell her, after all? Nan Ho? His secretary, Chang? The men who traveled with him? No, they would say nothing. Indeed, they would see it as their sacred duty to keep it from her.

Besides, did she really know her husband? Did she know his thoughts, his innermost desires? No. Not at all. Oh, she had tried to know him-she had tried to get close to him-but there was still a part of him he kept from her, an inner core she had never penetrated.

She bent down to retrieve the letter, uncrumpling it. As she did so she realized that Tsung Ye, her secretary was still there, his head bowed, awaiting her instructions.

"Tsung Ye, I'm sorry, I ..."

She saw him blush and cursed herself, knowing what her husband had said about never saying sorry to a servant. But it was hard sometimes. Empress she might be, but she was only human after all. Gathering together the shreds of her dignity, she returned to her desk and sat, spreading the letter out and smoothing it several times. For a moment she sat there, staring at the carved jade ink block and at the copy of Nan Ho's seal which lay beside it, then nodded to herself, her decision made.

"Tsung Ye. I have a letter I want delivered in the utmost confidence. It must be delivered by hand directly to the recipient. No one else must know of it nor learn of its contents, you understand me?"

Tsung Ye bowed low. "I shall do as my Mistress asks."

"Good." She reached out and took a clean sheet of her husband's paper, lifted a fine-pointed brush from the stand, and began to write.

THE WOMAN'S ScREAMS filled the tiny cell and echoed down the corridor outside, carrying into the nearby living quarters where two guards, playing cards at a table that doubled as a security barrier, paused, looking up uneasily, then carried on with their game.

Back in the cell, Lehmann turned from the naked body on the bench and placed the fine-tipped iron back onto the white-hot grid. The smell of burned flesh and feces was strong in the room, mixed like an obscene cocktail of pain. Overhead a camera captured it all. The film would sell for over five hundred yuan on the black market.

As Lehmann turned back to her, her eyes followed his every move- wide, terrified eyes, the pupils contracted to a tiny point by the drugs she'd been given to enhance the pain. She was bound to the four spikes at the corners of the bench by crude metal bands which, as she'd struggled, had cut into the flesh.

The metal glinted in the spotlight, slick with blood.

She was young-early twenties, twenty-five at most-and unlike most of the women one found downhere in the Lowers, she was well fleshed, no signs of malnourishment about her. It was that which had tipped his man off. That and the sidearm they'd found in her rooms when they'd searched them.

It was clever. He'd known for some while that Li Yuan was infiltrating his organization, but this female angle was a new one. She had been hired as a whore at one of his establishments and had proved very popular with many of his Above contacts. But whatever she'd found out would die with her now.

Whores . . . he'd have them all checked out now that they'd discovered this one.

He moved closer, lowering his face until it was only a hand's width from hers, then blew his breath across her face.

"Are you ready to talk?"

She swallowed, then shook her head.

"Brave girl. I'll make sure your Master gets a copy of the tape. Maybe he'll give you a promotion . . .

posthumously, of course."

Her eyes glared at him defiantly. She gritted her teeth against the pain, then spoke, her voice a whisper.

"Go to Hell."

He turned away, then took the iron from the grid and studied the tip. There, delicately carved into the white-hot iron, was the tiny Mandarin character Si. Death.

He looked at her and laughed-the coldest, emptiest sound she'd ever heard-then positioned the iron carefully. Cupping her right breast almost lovingly, he leaned in to her, pressing the white-hot tip to the nipple.

"There . . ." he said when she was silent again. "A matching pair. Now . . . you want me to start lower?"

Her skin was beaded with sweat, her eyes delirious. He could see that she was close now. One more tiny push.

"Okay," he said softly, placing the iron back upon the grid. "Let's start again. Who sent you?"

There was a knock. Lehmann turned, a flash of anger-pure, like lightning-passing through him. He had told them not to disturb him. If this was something trivial, he would have them on the bench in her place.

Controlling his anger, he went to the peephole and peered out.

Hart! What the fuck did Hart want? And who was the fat man with him?

He slid the bolt back, then pulled the door open.

"Forgive me, Stefan," Hart said, beginning to come in, "I . . ." He stopped, taking in what was going on.

"Kuan Yin ... I ... Look, 1 didn't know. If you want me to come back?"

"No. Come in. I'll be done in a while. But be quiet. I'm taping this."

Hart glanced at the camera uneasily, then went to the far side of the room, out of the camera's line of sight.

"This is Berrenson," he said, waving his companion across. "He's a businessman."Berrenson went across, staring all the while at the naked woman, a lewd smile playing on his lips. "Hey, what's going on here?" he began, almost cheerfully, but Hart put a hand over his mouth then drew him closer, whispering into his ear. Slowly Berrenson's face clouded over. He nodded, then swallowed deeply.

Lehmann locked the door, took the iron from the grid, then returned to the bench, as if the two men weren't there.

"Okay. Who sent you?"

She was trembling, her eyes fixated on the iron's glowing tip. Unable to prevent it, she began to piss herself again.

"I'll ask you one last time. Who sent you? Rheinhardt? Tolonen? Nan Ho?"

Her mouth moved, her tongue licked dryly at her lips, then she shook her head. "

"Who, then?"

"The . . . the Hand."

He had moved his face closer, now he drew it back, but still the iron hovered above her, at a point just below her navel.

"The Black Hand?"

She nodded.

He was silent a moment, thinking, then he turned and set the iron back on the grid. Seeing it, she closed her eyes, relief flooding through her.

Lehmann stood over her again, then leant close, his face almost touching hers, his eyes directly above her eyes.

Her eyes were wide open again-afraid to blink; petrified in case she missed what he was doing.

"You did well," he said gently, caressing her face with his long, pale fingers. "You did very well. But I need one more thing. I want the name-the real name-of your cell leader."

There was a strange movement in her eyes-a sudden realization that, whatever she did, whatever she said, there would be no end to this. Not until she was dead.

She shook her head, her whole face creased now with pain, knowing the torment to come. Vainly she began to call out and struggle.

Looking on, Hart felt himself go cold. He had never seen anything like it. Never . . . He shuddered, then closed his eyes as the woman's screams began again, while beside him, Berrenson looked on with a sickly fascination.