The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Seventy Five

HIS EXCELLENCY, SHAN YU IMPERIAL WARLORD OF YUAN –23:19

Shan Yu ran through the dim, empty corridors of his once-majestic warship as if all the hounds of all the hells were on his heels. He breathed as an old man breathes, one who has felt the icy fingers of death grip his chest. One who miserly spends each breath. His pulse hammered through his veins as he ran, but this was due far more to his state of mind than the level of his exertion. Shan Yu was scared. He had cheated Death. So many times, he had cheated Death. On the battlefield, the assassination attempts, the brushes with mortality that leave a man cold and sweaty in the middle of the night, he had faced all of them and persevered. When at last betrayal finally caught up with him and his most trusted minister struck him at his most vulnerable, when the best he could have hoped for was a quick end, he had cheated Death once again, and now strode through the product of his betrayer’s guilt far ahead in the future. A future where were there new worlds to conquer. A future that was his. It had all the makings of a great epic. The glorious form of an ancient sage-king and his legion of brave warriors, come back to life in a darkened age to set things to rights. It would have been grand poetry. The Alliance they spoke of, it was merely another form of Empire, a plutocracy disguised as a parliamentary bureaucracy, and it would have fallen. He knew how to do that. With his loyal men at his side, and this magnificent ship under his feet, he could stand against the Alliance with impunity. World after world would have fallen to his benevolent rule. Factions within the Alliance would spring up, fed and enflamed by his agents, until it split itself into convenient, bite-sized pieces. One by one they would have fallen, until he, Shan Yu, would rule over all of humanity. It had been a glorious dream. It was a dream befitting a god. But it was lost, now, and his loyal men were slain – slain by that . . . witch. He didn’t know how, by what mechanism she had done so, but she had used the ultimate code to slay them. His code, the one only he knew. He had feared anyone else to share that power, once, and had slain the few who had known it. She had used his own fear of betrayal against him. The irony was not lost on him – Shan Yu was a student of literature. His whole life had been literature. And now he was alone. He was having a hard time believing just how alone he was. Every person he knew was dead. Every friend and ally – lest some brave Tiger crouched in the shadows, awaiting his command – every opponent and enemy, every servant who had ever prepared him tea, everyone was dead now. His universe was filled with enemies, now, enemies he had not even truly earned. His universe was filled with Death. He could feel it stalking him as he ran. He knew the feeling well enough. He had caused Death to take millions, and a great many he had stared him in the eyes as that last great mystery enveloped them. He had watched it come to those who begged for its release. He had watched it come for those who fought tooth and nail its dark embrace. He had watched it come for those who welcomed it, in their despair, and he had watched it come for those unsuspecting . . . like the children in the tent. He had watched it come over and over, in every way imaginable, and still it came. It always came. But never for him. He had studied Death the way a philosopher studies life . . . the way a scientist studies an experiment. He had written poems about it, and its elegant harbinger, Pain, and he had even commissioned operas and great works of art exploring the nuances of Death. He was a connoisseur of the art. He knew everything about Death, everything but that final mystery. That, in the end, was what terrified and fascinated him. It was in that study that he had been searching for the key, the release from him mental prison. Death, as a phenomenon to be studied, placed him outside the realm of ordinary humanity. Great men could toy with empires and corporations, armies and fleets of ships, mighty philosophies and subtle cultural events, but they remained mere mortals. Shan Yu had transcended all of that, discarded it for the dross it was, and went right to the meat of the matter. By studying Death, he had escaped its power. His survival into this new age seemed to validate that. Of course, alone and old on a ship full of foes, he was mercilessly reminded that his theory on his transcendence of Death had, after all, only been a theory. So now he ran for his life, as any common vertebrate would in such dire straits. There was no transcendent being here, merely a frightened old man fleeing destruction. But he did not fly randomly into the gloom. He had purpose. He had hope. He had a destination. This was, after all, his ship. He had aided in its design and had overseen its construction. It was destined to be the ultimate war machine. The Sun Tzu was to be his flying palace, a roving capital from which he could survey his empire – and expand it.. Had that fool Lei Fong Wu not stolen away his ultimate glory Xiao and its colonies would have been but the first of the worlds that would fall to its might. It was his ship, his weapon, his tool of death, and he knew more about it than . . . he giggled a bit madly at the thought . . . than any person alive. He had thought of every possible contingency. Mutiny, rebellion, boarded by hostiles, disaster, even the unlikely event of alien invasion, he had foreseen it all. When Shan Yu built the Sun Tzu, he had designed it as much as a tool for his own survival as a weapon of militant diplomacy. It was strong. But Shan Yu did not truly trust in its might to protect him, for he was wise enough to realize that the most dangerous threats came from within its hull. So he had planned for the possibility that he would be on the run for his life on his own ship, in need of escape. And with methodical foresight he had provided those means. He came to a familiar intersection – at least it seemed familiar. In the gloom he could well be mistaken, so he paused for a moment and got his bearings before he moved on. He was close, after all, so close to his salvation he could taste it. His chest heaving like a bellows he pressed on. There was no telling how long he had. Part of Shan Yu knew that no matter what might happen, he would survive. He could not help but rise to the top of the press of common humanity. He was, after all, a superior man, unburdened by the petty trappings of morals and conscience. Such ruthlessness would allow him to survive whether he was in a corporate boardroom or an opium den. It had given him the strength to strike his foes and press for advantage. And Shan Yu’s willingness to sacrifice others to Death in return for his continued existence was all the advantage he needed. He saw the entrance of his private quarters and went inside, noting wryly that the guards that were supposed to be there were negligent today. His men had reported that Lei Fong Wu had done little to change his apartments, that they were largely as they had been when he had been betrayed. Their reports had been accurate. Perhaps the old traitor had some shred of respect left for his master. The artwork, the ornaments, the furnishings had been left untouched. In the gloom he could make out the priceless treasures that, in happier times, had made him among the wealthiest men in the ‘verse . . . in all of human history. He had coveted such things – and all wealth – as they translated to power and position. Now he would have to abandon them – most of them – in his mad dash to escape. He stopped briefly to stare at the Constable, then the Maru, and nearly lingered in front of a Patterson before he caught himself. He was running for his life, after all. He could appreciate art later. His personal bedchamber was not as pristine has he would have liked. His luxurious bedding had been vomited on, recently. A glance around the room told him why, and he did spend a precious few moments staring at the hibernation chamber where that bitch Nyan Nyan had apparently been sequestered, and feeling both a seething anger and an eagerness. She had also made the long trip through the decades to join him here. He would have his opportunity at revenge. After all he had done for her, sparing her life, seeing to her proper education, the personal time he had spent with her as a little girl, reading her stories, bringing her presents. The ungrateful bitch had stabbed him in the back – literally! – and changed the course of history. And all he had wanted was a demonstration of some of the minor skills she had learned at that brothel school. He had not even intended on broaching her, though he had been tempted. She had obviously been awakened by the bandits and spirited away. Good riddance, he sighed. He would have his chance at revenge, someday, somehow. He turned away from thoughts of vengeance and towards survival. He knelt and opened the lowest drawer, carelessly discarding expensive silk shirts as he searched for the switch. It was still there, of course. With a smile he activated it, and a section of bulkhead opened up, lit from within. Shan Yu sighed again, this time with relief. It was still here. He bypassed the stacks of banknotes, all colors and denominations from a dozen worlds. He started to scoop up some of the banks of platinum coins, then decided against it. He had prepared for that contingency. He wasn’t here for money. Instead he reached back behind the stacks of cash and brought forth two books, exquisitely bound in silk, made of the finest papers. His books, his last two works. They had lain here unknown and unpublished for over a hundred years. If nothing else, he would find a way to bring this literary legacy to light. Shan Yu had written over twenty books on various subjects, but his most masterful works were clearly those about the poetry of Pain and the purity of Death. Even off-world critics had hailed some of his later works as bespeaking of genius. His masterwork had been Tears of Gold, a poetic work in twelve parts that reflected his thoughts as he worked to discover the identity of an assassin by torturing twelve people to death. Each one had received their due, a clear relation of the beauty of their agony through an artistic lens. Each had been revealed as the person they were, when all else –even flesh – was stripped away from them. After that The Willow Tree Excursions, a book of poetry about three men and three women he had hung from a tree in the Palace courtyard and slowly tortured while pitting them against each other in merciless mindgames, had been touted as a critical success, even if it had gotten him tried for war crimes in abstentia on three worlds. He had always meant to go back and rewrite the author’s foreward on the work, but never had had the chance. And then his philosophical treatise, The Clarity of Anguish, had been a full-on exploration of the human psyche under extreme duress. He had taken whole families and subjected them to experiments in suffering to investigate the limits not just of human endurance, but of such complex interpersonal dynamics as love of mother and mother love. It had been wildly popular in some circles, with brisk sales and high circulation, though he suspected courtiers who sought his ear had pumped the figures with wholesale purchases. A pity. But these two . . . these were his masterpieces. They were almost finished, too. One was a follow-up to Clarity of Anguish, the Serenity of Suffering. It expanded some of the points he had introduced in the first book, and included a historical review of several famous cases of creative brilliance brought on by prolonged suffering, along with an examination of their cultural significance. He had gone so far as to crucify several political enemies to witness and record the process for the section on Jesus Christ and his followers. It was a tour de force of the art a thousand pages thick, when you included the appendices. The last book, though, was elegantly slim and hand-calligraphed on the finest silk paper. Here was his life’s work, Reflections on the River. Using Li Bai’s famous drunken embrace of the reflection of the Moon-that-Was in the Yangzte River (which subsequently led to his death by drowning) as an allegory, Shan Yu had penned a hundred and twenty concise and beautiful poetic reflections on Death and her various aspects. Though he preferred the more staid lines of Li Bai’s contemporary in T’ang Dynasty China, the Confucian poet-sage Du Fu, he had always been fascinated by the legend of Li Bai’s death. To be killed by a river while you sought to embrace the beloved night was a truly sublime metaphor. The work was inspired, and Shan Yu could not bring himself to let the ‘verse go without being exposed to it. He owed posterity that, at least. He swiped a few other knick-knacks from the shelves, items he thought he might need or want in his new life, then self-consciously closed the cabinet. He glanced at the lights above, which were still dark save for the scattered emergency lights. He had little time, he knew. The moment the power was restored to this section, he would show up on the internal sensors like a supernova. His enemies would be on to him. He had until that moment to prepare for his departure, and he did not need to waste a second of it. He strode out of his bedroom and down the hall, down a level, and into his darkened study. Here was where he would be departing, amongst the greatest of his treasures. This room was where he had planned to make his last stand, if necessary, the place where he could retreat to, and, if necessary, retreat from. He found the switch that activated the built-in holoconsole, and after a moment tapping in the proper codes one of the bookcases slid back to reveal a metallic hatch. It was the entrance to his private escape pod. It was loaded with guns and food and hard currency, all the elements he needed to forge a new identity, and a great many other things. The launch tube for it traveled through the depth of the ship to exit on the ventral side, planetward. With that pod he could slip away onto any godsforsaken frontier world and re-appear as saintly Josiah Chin, a modest itinerant merchant whose false identity he had carefully built up with well-forged documents – some of which might be out of date, but nothing he couldn’t fix. He could comfortably live as the humble trader until the heat blew over and he could start reclaiming at least part of his former position and power. He had stashed caches of money and valuables all over the ‘verse, and was confident enough in his abilities as a politician and a courtier that he did not doubt that he could rise to power once again, wherever he might land. The pod was his ticket to a new, prosperous life, a life free from his enemies. It was not designed for extended flight – he had a small gig in a far-forward section he had designed for that – but it would get him and a fair amount of treasure planetside without detection. That was enough. He wished he could have made his way to the gig, but it was far too dangerous under the circumstances. He had even considered stealing – stealing! On his own ship! – a shuttle from one of the bays, but there was no guarantee that such a ship would have survived its long sleep without damage. If the state of repair the rest of the Sun Tzu was in was any indication, to take one that hadn’t been properly inspected and prepped would have been an elaborate form of suicide. This pod was a simpler design. He was reasonably confident that it would be intact and functional. It was not like he had a range of choices: this would have to suffice. He started the warm-up sequence, remotely engaging the small reactor and priming the engines. Once it was ready, he was in for an eleven minute ride through the hell of re-entry, then . . . freedom. And prosperity. It would take a little while for the pod to be ready. Plenty of time to gather some precious treasures for the journey. He started looking for small, light, and sturdy items that would survive the trip with their value intact. Just a few of those would make him a comparatively rich man, not counting the impressive sum already stashed on board, mostly in platinum and gold and amber. If only the light were better . . . He heard the noise—the tiniest clearing of a throat—behind him. He stiffened without moving, his eyes wide. He was not alone. And, he realized, he was foolishly unarmed. Sensing his discovery, the man finally spoke. “Hello, Shan Yu. Have a seat. You and me, we need to talk for a spell,” came a smooth but strained voice. He recognized it. He had heard it recently. It was Shepherd Book.

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RELENTLESS –23:33

“Well, Sir, I have good news . . . and bad news,” Drake said reluctantly as Sinclair entered the Bridge. “Which do you want first?” “I really hate the way you do that ‘good news, bad news’ thing, have I mentioned that?” Sinclair said tiredly. He had forced himself to catch a twenty-minute nap and a meal, but he still looked haggard in the pale glow of the emergency lights. “I . . . sorry, Sir. The good news is, the Chief just sent word that he’s discovered the nature of the problem, and can repair it relatively easily.” “That,” agreed Sinclair, rubbing his eyes, “is ruttin’ good news. And . . .?” “And, the Chief says that the issue wasn’t a hardware issue—” “What?!?” Sinclair gasped. “That’s impossible! Our security –” “Is proof against any outside influence, yessir. But when the Chief finished tearing off the armor and plumbed the core, he visually inspected the outer rings – and the diagnostic said they were shattered. But he was staring right at ‘em. So he ran a diagnostic, and found the diagnostic package had been compromised. So he flushed the software and rebooted with clean code, and the reactor was perfectly sound.” “So . . .” Sinclair began, trying to wrap his mind around the idea, “we just spent . . . hours . . . tearing down the core, exposing our tech crew to radiation, crouching in the dark and eating cold protein, because . . . they hacked us.” He finished. “Pretty much, Sir,” agreed Drake. “That’s . . . how’d they do it?” “Carrera isn’t positive, but he thinks that someone did something back at Madonna, during repairs. He admitted it could be a natural glitch, but . . .” “Not a glitch that gorram specific,” finished Sinclair. “Wo cao ni ba bei zi zu zong!” he swore. Drake visibly cringed. Usually his boss was so controlled and collected – so unlike Julian Martel, who had been known to curse his own mother’s name on occasion. “He’s tracing the source of the issue?” “He’s got his best team on it,” Drake assured him. “I take it he’s getting the armor back on?” “Shielding will be re-assembled and the ship ready to power up within the next three hours.” “Well thank Buddha for small favors,” he said sourly. “After losing a dozen expensive drones and taking the damage at Salisbury, the last thing we needed was to pay for a new core.” “It was the freezing to death and asphyxiation that I was a little more concerned about,” Drake confided. “Any word from Julian?” he said, taking the Captain’s chair, ignoring his subordinate’s caustic commentary. “Nossir. But we do have some news on the Marauder that we smacked.” “I hope you’re about to report a debris field,” Sinclair said, picking up the status log flexi from its customary place in the arm of his chair. “Well, sir, I have some good— oh. Um, the drone didn’t destroy him, though it did fatally damage him. He managed, somehow, to activate two missiles on his wings and utilized their propulsion to fly him around the Sun Tzu, though. There was an explosion out of our line of sight, but we’re assuming his half-baked stunt didn’t work.” “He did . . . y’know, that’s almost brilliant, if it wasn’t monumentally stupid. Heh. He used the missiles . . . didn’t teach him that one in combat flight school, I bet! I wonder where he trained? Independent? Imperial? Alliance?” “Uh, actually Sir, we have a name for him.” “You what?” Sinclair asked, surprised. “How’d you manage that?” “Well, remember when he was trying to shoot us up, but couldn’t get enough power on his lasers to do any damage?” “Yes – and we were damn lucky. He could have carved us up like cheese!” “Well, when I had Rodriguez EVA to check out the damage and bleed the secondaries manually, he found this,” he said, handing over a flexi featuring a capture, “on our hull.” Sinclair took it and stared blankly for a moment. Then his face contorted. “That sonofaBITCH!” he bellowed. “No one shoots up my command, Drake, no one! And you can bet your last two gorram bits that no one is going to get away with this kind of chou ba guai shi! Who the hell is ‘Hoban “Wildfire” Washburn’?” “He’s a pilot. Holds a Class C commercial rating, though his papers are way out of date. Did a couple of years hauling in the Core, a little transport work, some corporate runs, and then a few years ago he drifted out here. He’s the pilot of the Firefly.” “Where’d he go to combat flight school?” Sinclair demanded. “Um . . . he didn’t.” “That’s utter fei hua. The way he flew? That was ace-level flying, against multiple opponents. He did it almost effortlessly – I don’t know any trained combat pilots that ever survived those kinds of odds, even during the War. He had to train somewhere – you don’t get those kind of skills playing video games, Drake!” “I’m tellin’ you, Sir, no where. I did a deep check, figuring you’d want to know. We don’t have access to the cortex at the moment, but our on-board databases didn’t have squat. A couple of defaulted student loans, a couple of liens by former employers, a couple of drunk and disorderlies, but all standard spacer stuff. If the guy ever went to combat school, he kept it a secret.” “Just another gorram mystery. Although I’d assume that if Dr. Tam is as good as he appears – taking on the Imperials and those Browncoats like he did – he has an eye for extraordinary talent. Probably saw this Wildfire character and realized what he had.” Sinclair shook his head. “I shake the ‘verse for a decent crew – just decent – and get this lot of dunk tank rejects. Dr. Tam crooks his evil little finger and he gets the best talent in the ‘verse to jump to his command. I swear, I will make this Wildfire character pay – and pay dearly – for his temerity.” “I’ll quote you on that one, Sir,” Drake assured. “He didn’t kick our ass – we kicked his!” “I know, sir, I know,” Drake soothed. “I mean it. I want his head! I want to string his bloated corpse behind us like the gorram Reavers!” “Yes, sir, I’ll . . . I’ll make the arrangements,” Drake said, uncertainly. “Oh, just go fetch me some coffee,” Sinclair said, irritated. “Let’s try to get the ship into shape before Julian gets back. He’s going to be pissed enough as it is.” Drake wandered off towards the break room before Sinclair could give him more orders. When he was out of sight, he finally let out a long-surpressed grin. He didn’t care much to get shot at, either, but Wildfire didn’t do that. He could have, but didn’t. That took balls, big round brass hairy ones, and Drake respected that. It was almost enough to make up for coming into port with that gorram insult burned into their hull.

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AD HOC RESCUE TEAM -23:08

“We’re lost, face it!” Simon moaned tiredly. “We ain’t lost, coreboy!” Zoe replied evenly. There was no mistaking her tone, however. It was that of a tightly controlled mother dealing with a petulant toddler’s outburst. “Just relax. Assuming someone’s still alive, they’ll come looking. And we ain’t exactly helpless, here, y’know,” she said brandishing her weapon threateningly. They had been getting into a row for a while now, ever since they had taken a turn – and there was some small disagreement whose idea the turn had been – into a section of the ship that was maddeningly short of labels and maps. It was a more industrial looking section, where the doors only had code numbers and the corridors had all the charm of an abandoned factory. There was apparently a docking bay around somewhere, as mean little signs indicating points of departure and cargo loading areas were scattered around liberally. They had tried chasing one down just to get their bearings, but the genius that had erected them in the first place had evidently failed to do proper quality control. The path led them to a wide, dark, empty storage bay. “Pardon me for feeling a little . . . concerned about our likely death from starvation,” Simon muttered. “Nah, never happen,” Zoe insisted quietly. “Pray tell why not?” Simon demanded. Zoe turned around – she had insisted on driving the mule after the last major disagreement about their course – and gave him a steely stare. “Because long before that,” she explained, “I’ll kill you dead and feast on your flesh for sustainance,” she said harshly, her eyes sharp. “Then by all means, start with the buttocks, so you can—” “That’s enough, Doctor!” Zoe said, trying to pull herself together. She had dealt with far more difficult men under her command during the war. Of course, she had never had to deal with one of them exclusively for any significant length of time. Perhaps, she reflected, she was getting crotchety in her old age. “Besides, that won’t be necessary any more. Will it, Jayne?” “Huh?” Simon said. “Are you . . . feeling okay, Zoe?” “I’m fine,” she dismissed. “And your knight in shining armor has arrived to whisk you back to the castle.” “Not . . . feeling feverish?” “Jayne, c’mon out! That’s an order!” Zoe bellowed. “I don’t think you’re –” “Aw, Zoe, you went and spoilt my surprise!” Jayne’s familiar harsh voice said, laughing. Simon whipped around, gun in hand, and nearly dropped it in surprise. There stood the big dumb mercenary, having emerged mysteriously from the shadows. He seemed little worse for wear, though he needed a shave. Simon needed one too. “How did you -- ?” Simon began, confused. “I didn’t hear a gorram thing!” “I’m sneaky like that,” Jayne said, proudly. “Just not enough to stalk Zoe.” “My gorram nose ain’t broke, and I know for true you ain’t had more’n a nodding acquaintance with a bathtub in days,” Zoe sighed. “Next time check the direction of the ventilation.” “I still coulda snuck up on you, all stealthily like,” Jayne insisted, setting his bag down on the back of the mule. “If I was half dead, and prone to hallucinations, perhaps,” agreed Zoe. “You’ll never be better’n me, Cobb.” “I was gonna sneak up on fancy-pants here and see if I couldn’t make him soil his breaches,” Jayne said with an evil chuckle. “That woulda been worth the whole gorram trip! I see you ain’t found the preacher,” he noted. “Not so much,” agreed Zoe. “He might could be better’n us both.” “Might could,” agreed Jayne. “Still, Mal sent me along to catch up to you, give you a hand.” “Mal’s alive?” Zoe asked. “War’s over,” agreed Jayne, opening his bag. “Shan Yu left when your darling mei mei blew up his soldiers. Had bombs in their necks or somethin’ – never got that part clear. But she snuck the code to ‘splode ‘em outa Shan Yu’s head. They blowed up real good, too. Anyways, Johnny freed them Imperial Guards what were stashed down . . . up . . . well, back there aways, and came to the rescue just as them gorram bounty hunters were about to settle our hash. Mal made a truce with their chief an’ sent ‘em packin’. Should have the Engine Room up an’ runnin’ afore we can even get back to the main corridor . . . which we’re a ways away from, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” “Fancy pants was in charge of directions,” Zoe accused Simon. “Oh!” he shot back, offended. “You just wait ‘till I get you on my table again . . .” “I thought you docs could do no harm?” Zoe teased. “An enema is often a healthy practice,” Simon said evenly. “Though rarely a pleasant experience.” “Ouch! Ain’t touchin’ that ‘un,” Jayne said. “I am gratified to hear Mal an’ River an’ the others . . . that it all came out okay. Now all I need is to hear from my idjit husband, an’ all will be right with the ‘verse.” “Best bet for us is to find a cozy spot, then, eat a bit o’ lunch, an’ wait for the lights to come on. Then we can take a lift back to the ship an’ use internal sensors to locate our errant preacher. Don’t know ‘bout y’all, but I done more walkin’ the last two days than is rightly good for a body. Sound good? Better’n cannibalism?” Zoe looked Simon up and down. “Well . . . okay. But I ain’t necessarily given up on the whole eatin’ human flesh thing. Just in this one case. ‘Less you can keep civil, Doc.” “Good to know,” Simon said. “What did you bring?” “Them Tigers had all manner of tasty victuals,” Jayne said, digging cartons out of his pack. “You don’t mind hunnert-an-thirty year old pork lo mein? I called dibs on th’ dumplin’s so tough luck. Or are you a duck man?” “Duck!” Simon agreed eagerly. “But . . . I hate to take such an arbitrary and subjective issue as dining atmosphere so seriously when we’re eating field rations, but is there any place we can eat that looks less like a black-out zone?” “Wouldn’t mind findin’ somewheres more defensible,” agreed Zoe after a moment’s consideration. “Sure,” agreed Jayne. “Y’all passed the entrance to th’ landing bay about two turns back. I saw lights – they got local emergency power. Probably a working comm. Rig. Might even be a comfy chair in one o’ the lounges.” “That sounds like nirvana, right now,” Simon agreed. “Good ‘nuff,” Jayne sighed. “Operation Find th’ Ruttin’ Preacher is officially suspended. Let’s find that place an’ go eat!” “Works for me. I can eat anywhere,” Zoe said. “Or anything,” she added, catching Simon’s eye meaningfully as she activated the mule. “I’m sure I’d be much too rich for you,” Simon said, deadpan. “But I appreciate the honor.”