Free Jade Dragon by James Swallow Page B

snapped back as the crowd picked him up. He was driftwood in the
swell, the panic alive about him. The operative shouldered against the
flow and slid back, standing his ground as the screaming hordes washed
around him. The lasers sputtered and shrieked, darts of murderous
coherent light striking like thunderbolts. The angel-things fluttered
and shredded into storms of snakes, vanishing as they fell or slithering
into shadows.
    As “Touch” reached its crescendo and faded, the sound of sirens pealed
over the crash of feet and breaking glass. Fixx shook his head, the wet
fog clutching at his mind, making him feel drunk and slow. Fat droplets
spattered about on the floor, sparkling in the spotlights.
    More men in the talking shirts were sweeping Juno and the band off the
stage. Impossibly, there were fans in the circles and the skyboxes on
their feet and applauding, tears of elation streaming down their faces.
Fixx threw himself at the mojo barrier and fell short, rebounding off
the metal with a tingle from the stunner field.
    Juno Qwan saw him. She turned and looked at him with those eyes, the
porcelain face that clogged every instant of television airtime, every
billboard and viddy. Fixx tried to find her name but his throat
tightened. The girl looked down on him, beatific and empty.
    Then the men in hoods were taking her away, and darkness settled inside
the dome like the end of the world.
     
    Tze discarded the suit like a shed skin and dressed himself once more in
the kingly robes of blue and gold. The only conceit to the present day
world were the handmade Italian shoes beneath the flaring curve of
fabric. There were many vices that Mr Tze granted himself, but sometimes
the simplest were the ones that provided the most pleasure. The shoes
fitted him as perfectly as if he had been born with them, and with a
sigh playing about his lips, the CEO of Yuk Lung Heavy Industries
dismissed Deer Child and gathered himself.
    He viewed the painting of the battle at Tsing-hsien on the far wall,
cocking his head so that the clock concealed in the artwork became
visible. Time, then. Time to consult once more with the players in the
game.
    Tze spoke a command word and the window glass went opaque, painting the
room with thick pools of shadow where the light of the lanterns failed
to reach. The door opened to admit the Hi woman and he gave her a
cursory nod.
    “Sir,” she replied, her mechanical smile snapping on, then off.
    Tze glanced at his hand, the one he had used to press Francis Lam’s
fingers into the blades of the ghost knife. “We have a moment before we
begin…”
    “The augurs report a perfect match, sir.” She knew what questions he had
before they were voiced. Tze liked that about Phoebe Hi. It was one of
the reasons why she wasn’t dead. “Genotype correlation is very good.
Professor Tang was positively beaming when he gave me the news.”
    “I imagine he was,” Tze noted dryly. “Where is Francis now?”
    “Alice has taken him to Alan’s apartment. She suggested we allow him to
take the residence for himself. A good solution. Far easier than setting
up another secured environment from scratch.”
    Tze nodded. “Commend her. Forward thinking should be rewarded.” In the
middle of the room was a shallow ceremonial bowl. The executive mumbled
a cantrip beneath his breath and bit into his knuckle, letting a couple
of drops of blood fall into the brass basin. “Link,” he said to the air,
and from hidden slots in the ceiling a cluster of projector heads
emerged on silent spider legs.
    A series of holograms blinked into life around the room, appearing in a
circle around Tze and the bowl. Most of them were human, but one or two
were simple black monoliths bearing the character for “silence”. Hi
found her place among them and bowed.
    Tze gave the phoenix-eye salute. “Kindred, I have good news. Our pattern
continues unaffected by the trials of recent days.”
    “That is gratifying to hear,” said a figure