Waste Tide

by Chen Qiufan

  Equally abruptly, the golden filter endowed with the soul of reminiscence was ripped away from her eyes, and everything cruelly fell back into the dull, banal, ugly, and acrid here and now. Mimi lifted her head and saw that Brother Wen was holding her. She must have fallen, though she didn’t remember doing so. A wave of nausea rose in her uncontrollably, heading straight for her throat.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Brother Wen said, still trying to soothe her, giving her a reassuring smile. “This happens. It will pass.”

  There were no free lunches. Every downloaded dose lasted only five minutes, because, supposedly, extended use could damage the user’s vestibular system. Of course, some crazed junkies completely disregarded such warnings. The electronic drugs were created in every corner of the globe, and those desperate to escape reality or yearning for stimulation, most of them the poor of the third world, sought them out eagerly. In the black markets, coding prodigies painstakingly researched hacking methods so that they could get their hits for free or produce more potent, more exotic variants that could be used in combination with traditional synthetic chemical substances. This made the use of such electronic hallucinogens dangerous and unpredictable.

  To avoid getting in trouble with the law, electronic drug dealers typically maintained their data centers in server farms on orbiting space stations. From there, the goods were transmitted to ground stations, where they were distributed to end users. Junkies referred to these space-based drug farms as “Lucy’s diamonds.”

  Mimi dared only to buy these “digital mushrooms” from Brother Wen. She trusted he wouldn’t give her anything too dangerous. She tried multiple varieties: some induced insane hallucinations; others could be guided by the user’s consciousness to some extent, like taking a journey of inner discovery; one flashed the mysterious smile of a Western woman, but produced no other effects (Brother Wen told her that the program was called HEMK Ekstase, and was probably from Eastern Europe, though he didn’t know who the woman was, either); some she swore to never touch again. But always, she could not forget Halcyon Days, which brought her back to childhood, back to her home, back to her mother’s side.

  “The mi on your neck only glows when you’re using it,” Brother Wen told her.

  * * *

  Half a year ago, Luo Jincheng had thought the dim sum sit-down was the idea of the Lin clan, but as soon as the first dishes were brought to the table, that little waste punk called Li Wen showed up. He respectfully greeted the heads of the three clans and asked if he could be allowed to sit. Neither the Luo nor the Chen representatives said anything, but Boss Lin nodded slightly. Director Lin Yiyu, who was also present, appeared ill at ease at this development.

  Lin Yiyu was there both as one of the representatives of the Lin clan and also as the head of Silicon Isle Town Government’s Office of Investment. The two conflicting roles put him in an awkward position. It was obvious that he was struggling to keep his expression impassive.

  Li Wen sat down, smiled, and said that he wasn’t there for food and tea. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and my nerves are shot. I guess I’m here to beg the bosses for a prescription.”

  Lin Yiyu coughed, hinting that he should get to the point instead of playing games.

  Li Wen stared at the piping steamer full of hakau. “I’ve heard rumors that there’s a price on my head. Those shrimp dumplings remind me of me.”

  Luo Jincheng finally understood that the meeting was really directed at him. He had wanted Knifeboy to spread the rumors to scare Li Wen and stop him from making further trouble, and it appeared that Knifeboy had carried out his intent to a T. This was one of the reasons Luo thought so highly of Knifeboy: all he had to do was to give a few subtle hints, and Knifeboy intuited what he really wanted and implemented his plan with cruel and efficient initiative. Of course there was a bit of self-deception involved here, but Luo Jincheng seemed to feel that this way, he could shift the blame to Knifeboy and avoid bad karma for himself.

  However, it was still unclear to him why the Lin and Chen clans seemed afraid of a mere waste man.

  Li Wen, taking note that no one was willing to pick up the conversation, went on by himself. “I’ve been in Silicon Isle for a year and half, but I really like it here and already think of it as home. I’ve been to many villages around here, trying to straighten out the accounting, but I just can’t seem to make the figures work out. Perhaps all the bosses here can help me?”

  He took out a notepad with an oily cover and an abacus, and pushed the pile respectfully toward Luo Jincheng.

  Luo Jincheng glanced at him askance, and then began to flip through the pages of the notepad. Soon, the contempt on his face was replaced by astonishment. The notepad was filled with columns of data, including the daily quantities and types of waste received at each village, the recycling ratio, length of the processing period, the fluctuating market prices of metals and plastics, cost of labor, cost of electricity and water, rent, depreciation of machinery and equipment, and so on. The whole thing resembled some giant mathematical matrix. Luo Jincheng knew that all the data in here could be obtained from public sources, but no one had ever taken the trouble to organize them and put them together.

  The last page of the notepad contained only a few simple figures in red: the amount of taxes that the clans should be paying based on the calculations and the amount of taxes they actually paid—these last were marked with the explanatory note that they were copied from a news release on the tax bureau’s website: “Commendations for Our Biggest Taxpayers.”

  Luo Jincheng understood that the slender young man before him was far more dangerous than his humble looks suggested. He glanced at the representatives from the Lin and Chen clans, and their faces told him that the figures in the notepad were accurate.

  “Young man, you’re very clever. Why don’t you tell us what you want? We can talk about anything.” Luo Jincheng pushed the notepad back to him. It was obvious that someone as savvy as this Li Wen wouldn’t keep all this data in only a paper notepad.

  Li Wen grinned. “All I want is for you to treat us as people, not waste.”

  An awkward silence descended over the table. After a while, Lin Yiyu spoke in his habitual smooth “official” voice. “Xiao Wen”—he employed a diminutive meant to show familiarity—“many things can be resolved by having all of us sit down together and hold a discussion. We’ve been working for years to improve the welfare of migrant laborers. Of course, there remain many areas in need of progress.”

  “I’m glad we share this consensus.” Li Wen raised his teacup. “Whatever is recorded in this notepad is worth a lot more than my life, no?”

  The cup hovered in the air, waiting, trembling slightly. Then the Lin clan’s cup was raised into the air as well, followed by the Chen clan’s. Luo Jincheng understood that he was being cornered. The three clans were now like three fish strung together through the jaws—a forceful jerk would split all their mouths. Although the Luo clan now dominated the other two clans, he could not ignore the interests of everyone and make all the decisions on his own. Switching to a different piscine metaphor: when fish got too desperate, they might break the net—the consequences would not be good for anyone.

  Luo Jincheng slowly raised his cup and clinked it crisply against the other three cups.

  Now, as he recalled that scene from half a year ago, Luo remembered that outsider rascal’s eyes: calm and calculating, like some ticking time bomb. But, for now, Luo Jincheng could do nothing about him. If the data he had gathered got leaked, not only would the three clans as well as the tax bureau get in trouble, but the Americans might seize the opportunity to gain leverage. That was what he worried about the most.

  Adding his son’s illness to the mix made his life far too complicated. Luo Jincheng piously knelt before the shrine every morning and every evening, praying fervently at the statue of the Buddha that had been blessed by the monks. He prayed for Him-ri, for the Luo family, and also for Silicon Isle. As he gazed at
the golden, mysterious smile on the Buddha’s face, he silently pledged that if his prayers were answered, he would donate enormous amounts to charity, renovate the temples, and contribute to organizing massive festivals at the Buddha’s birthday every year, inviting every resident of Silicon Isle to share in the blessing.

  This is just like negotiating a business contract. The thought flitted through his mind, and he quickly extinguished it. The phone rang.

  It was Knifeboy. After about one week of searching, he had found that waste girl, just a step ahead of the Lin clan.

  “Seize her and bring her to the Hall of Charity and Piety.” Luo Jincheng hung up.

  Is the Lin clan involved in this now? He knelt before the Buddha, spread his hands on the ground, palms up, and touched his forehead to the ground three times. The corners of his mouth also lifted up in an equally mysterious smile, as though he had received an edict from another dimension.

  You have a deal. The voice came from somewhere in his heart.

  * * *

  The LED light next to the hotel room that meant “Please make up room” was unlit. Scott opened the door and turned on the light. The maid had indeed been here: everything was neat and in its place, and the air was suffused with a faint citrus fragrance. He turned on the TV hanging on the wall, chose a channel at random, and turned the volume up. Habitually, he walked around the room with his phone; the full-band scan didn’t reveal any unusual electromagnetic emissions.

  The place is clean. This was the best local hotel, and it also meant that the Luo clan owned the business.

  Scott took out the portable computer that he always carried with him and launched an encrypted chat program with both voice and text modes—he understood that there was no absolutely secure channel here. The men and women on TV, Caucasian in appearance, were speaking in fluent Modern Standard Mandarin and trying to pitch upgraded pet implants that had been launched in North American markets last Christmas.

  They can intuit your moods better and build a better relationship with you. SBT is proud to present our latest products for all tomorrow’s parties!

  Scott was reminded of the chipped dogs. In a few months, the electronics markets of Huaqiangbei in Shenzhen would be filled with more powerful shanzhai copies better adapted to local tastes. And then those copies would be exported to the United States to be purchased by SBT’s minimum-wage workers who couldn’t afford the real thing and then installed in their unfixed mutts.

  The frightening Chinese who pirated and copied everything.

  The situation was a bit absurd. While the American working class decried the cheap Chinese laborers robbing them of jobs, they were also thankful that the inexpensive Chinese products helped them maintain their dignified standard of living. Meanwhile, in China, the dollars were converted into yuan and filled the pockets of the nouveaux riches, the factory owners, channel distributors, technicians, and low-level bureaucrats who disdained the Chinese imitations and dedicated themselves to the pursuit of replicating the lifestyle of Manhattan’s Lower East Side or the San Francisco Bay Area, including their rapid upgrade cycles.

  And so, the yuan were converted back into dollars.

  Connecting … connection established … encryption active.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: Clean?

  CHANG FENGSHA: Yes.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: How’s progress?

  CHANG FENGSHA: There are a few candidates. I’m following up.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: Very good. Remember the time constraints.

  CHANG FENGSHA: What exactly is this thing? How does it affect the candidates?

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: You know the rules.

  CHANG FENGSHA: I’m just asking.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: A minor accident, nothing more. This is just a routine mission of recovery. Focus on your main project, please.

  CHANG FENGSHA: It’s more difficult than I imagined.

  HIROFUMI OTOGAWA: I heard. Well, it’s the Chinese, you know.

  CHANG FENGSHA: I’ll follow my guidebook … can you wait a minute?

  A light breeze caressed Scott’s face. Due to the heavily polluted air, he always kept the windows of his room tightly shut and relied on the central-air system to filter and exchange the air. Where is the breeze coming from? He said goodbye to “Hirofumi Otogawa,” quit the chat program, and closed the lid of his computer. Gingerly, he stepped to the window and saw that it was open at a minuscule angle, almost undetectable, and the humid, warm summer evening breeze was coming from this tiny crack.

  The hotel was built along a horseshoe plan, with the open side facing the sea. According to feng shui principles, this was a good shape for gath ering wealth. Scott’s room was located at one extreme of the U where the view was wide open, surrounded by the sea on three sides, which meant it was also the most expensive room in the hotel. The opened window faced the inside of the U, so that, from here, one could see all the rooms on the other side.

  He squinted; the neon lights flickering across the glass wall of the hotel formed a shifting mosaic, and the sound of the surf against the shore came to him intermittently. He trusted his senses, which had been honed by strict training: there was something unusual about the scene; his consciousness just hadn’t caught up to it. Suddenly, a red glow flashed across an unlit window on the other side of the hotel, on the same story as his, disappearing almost as soon as it had appeared.

  A laser. For eavesdropping. Scott realized that the open window was intended to create a better angle for the light and to increase the sensitivity of the glass as it vibrated with the sound of his voice.

  He dashed out of his room and ran through the long hallway, calculating the position of the room with the unlit window. A man was walking toward him, and as soon as he saw Scott, he turned around and pushed open a set of emergency doors, and the staircase echoed with rapid footsteps. It’s him! Scott slammed through the doors and chased the man down the stairs.

  Twenty-two flights of stairs seemed to have no end. The man showed no intention of slowing down, and the dense footsteps echoed back and forth in the staircase, reverberating chaotically. Scott’s heart pounded, as though about to leap out of his chest any second. His breathing became short, and a red warning flashed before his eyes—it came from his pacemaker, the result of another accident.

  The footsteps below abruptly shifted direction. Scott banged through the emergency doors and emerged into the underground parking garage. The figure of the man stumbled toward the light at the exit, seemingly exhausted. Scott slowed down and tried to adjust his breathing, waiting for the pacemaker to get things under control again. He estimated that his prey was about five foot seven, which meant that his strides were correspondingly shorter than Scott’s. It was just a matter of time before Scott caught up.

  The roar of an engine came, and the ground vibrated as though some beast had awakened and sneezed. Damn. Ignoring the pain in his chest, Scott opened his stride and ran after the man. But the shrill squeals of tires rushed at him from another direction, giving no indication that they intended to slow down.

  The man turned back to look in the direction of the oncoming car, but his face showed no relief or joy. The headlights lit up his pale face, and his expression quickly turned to terror.

  Just as the car was about to slam into him, Scott jumped and pushed him out of the way. Momentum carried him rolling forward until he crashed into the wall. The car, however, did not stop, but went up the incline and vanished into the bright exit.

  Scott lay faceup on the ground, gulping for air. He couldn’t even pay attention to the pain: his heart felt scalding hot, like some engine about to fail due to overload, convulsing uncontrollably. He had made a mistake in judgment, and he was going to pay a heavy price for it.

  The man stood up unsteadily, still stricken by terror. He looked at Scott and hesitated.

  Scott forced the convulsing muscles of his face into an ugly smile.

  “I … I don’t know.…” The man spoke Chinese. “They paid me and told me t
o run, run as fast as I could. I don’t know anything, really.…”

  Scott understood. He laughed. The cunning Chinese! They’re using the trick known as “lure the tiger away from the mountain,” one of the Thirty-Six Stratagems of classical Chinese war and politics. It appeared that their real goal was to get him out of his room so that they could get at his computer. He relaxed. Based on his experience, it was impossible to break through his encryption within such a short period of time; if they tried to disassemble the machine to get at the hard drive, they would trigger the self-destruct mechanism; and if they tried to steal the computer and bring it with them, they’d be giving Scott a chance to trace them to their lair.

  “Can you help me?” Scott asked. The man struggled to lift him, but Scott’s huge frame caused both of them to tumble down in a pile, raising a cloud of dust.

  * * *

  The room had been registered under a false identity. The hallway closed-circuit TV recording showed that the person had disguised himself as a member of the cleaning staff and snuck into Scott’s room. The hotel could provide no explanation for this mysterious figure, and Director Lin Yiyu was about to explode with anger. The man had taken advantage of Scott’s pursuit of the false lure and stayed in Scott’s room for three minutes and forty seconds before leaving in a hurry, apparently having been warned somehow.

  The lid of Scott’s computer was closed and the machine was asleep, though the fan was warm.

  The mysterious figure had ridden the cargo elevator down to the lobby, taken off his uniform in the restroom, and then walked out the front door of the hotel and hailed a taxi.

  “We’ve already traced the location of that cab.” Inside the VIP suite, Director Lin was keeping Scott apprised of the situation while he communicated with the police on his Bluetooth headset. “Don’t worry, Mr. Scott. He won’t get away.”