The Celestial Instructi0n by Grady Ward Page A

did not move any but their chosen stick.
    Between the cosmological emblazons, what appeared
to be a long sequence of roman numbers and letters were carved as if twining foliage
into the circumference of the dark cherry wood cylinders.
    “At the International Bank of Beijing you each have
an account. To be specific, each account contains one thousand million United
States dollars denominated in Renminbi, or if you choose, redeemable in gold,
real estate, or a lifetime position of extreme political influence within the
provinces.” They are anonymous. Whoever has the numbers on your chopsticks can
access these accounts.” He paused and waited until the three men were staring
at him in full attention. “But you may not access your account until the ash
begins to form the earth.”
    Finished, the Angel visitor began to rise in
dismissal. Parichoner Qu began to speak, but was silenced with Angel’s graceful
palm forcefully interposed between them.
    “I need to be clear as water in a forgotten mountain
cistern. But this is not about cisterns,” he smiled. “This is not a revolution,
this is not a war, this is not a movement, this is not a coup, this is not a
subversion or utopia, and this is not an ideology or culture. This is a new
civilization. Your accounts are nothing, they are the silk, the cocoon, but the
pupa inside is what is important. The moth discards the silk, but only seeks to
fly where the silk can never see. You are welcome to this discarded silk, this wealth.
It is trivial.”
    Angel 1 finished rising. His assistant remained
seated and looked upward at his master as if for direction, from a son to his
father. With his twisted right hand, Angel dipped into his hip pocket and with
two fingers took out a suppressed Baby Browning .25 ACP with brilliant green
grips. He put it on the table and swapped it somewhat clumsily to his good left
hand. The Angel then put the pistol under his assistant’s chin and fired a
single shot into his head. The three Triax twitched involuntarily but stared
without comment at the slumping assistant.
    Angel 1 then put the pistol on the table and
politely waited for Dominion Jones to undog the chapter-room door and opened it
for him quietly to leave. The first leg of his return flight to Beijing was in
less than an hour. He did not say anything further nor did he ask for
questions.
    Dominion Cassandra Jones, Esq. stayed to attend to
the chapter-room after the three executives left. It was not the first such
duty in her staff career.
    After changing back from their silken vulnerability
into their business attire, Triax Wu left by roof helicopter; Xi left by a
doorman-hailed taxi on the west side of 666, and Qi left on 34th St, walking
east to the heliport. Qi was in shock, his gut in turmoil. “Or taste not the
Pierian spring,” he said to the air.

Chapter 23
     
    Sam Lion-McNamara, his bare feet sticking out under
the cardboard he had drawn over himself dreamed about becoming an adult. For
him that meant an almost magical transformation from go-boy to chief. Power to
say what he would do and when he would do it. But, rationally, the men around
him even so had to follows orders whether from bosses on the docks or, if
homebound, their market momma wives assembling the baskets of vegetables and
miscellaneous gleanings and handwork that she would display on Kroo Town Road.
    Sam saw the red shadows of the flickering lights of
the router/switch on the ceiling. That was good—just as the sprays of water and
puddles around the town proved that the water was running today, the flickering
proved that both the power was on and that the connection to the telephone
company was sound.
    The sun was already throwing sharp shadows on the
curb outside the café. Soon, glum Milton Kono, the skeletal manager would
unlock the plank and corrugated iron door with its ancient warded key lock and
mount himself on his stool inside the metal cashier’s cage at one corner of the
first floor. He would