by Chen Qiufan
He knew that Mimi was the last person to come in contact with that particular prosthesis. Based on what he had heard from Director Lin, Scott was virtually certain that the virus was already having an effect inside Mimi, and the effects far exceeded his imagination. It almost seemed as if the Suzuki variant was endowed with a strong survival instinct that drove it to adapt constantly to the needs of humans, to transform itself to gain the opportunity for the lineage to continue. It was a survival strategy based on rapid mutations.
No one could predict Mimi’s future. However, like Eva, she could no longer go home.
Scott’s intuition told him that the secret hidden within this young woman was thousands of times more valuable than the Silicon Isle recycling project. He could even see the paths leading to the goal overlaid on top of the scene in front of him like augmented-reality plans. He would take advantage of Kaizong’s sentimental, unseasoned love and construct a lie that would bring Mimi away from Silicon Isle and into the international market, where her potential value could be fully exploited. When absolutely necessary, he would open the box of take-out sea urchin supplied by Coltsfoot Blossom, which contained his trick of last resort.
Is this what you really want? Scott asked himself.
No. I want to save her. I won’t harm her, I won’t.
Scott told himself again and again that the medical examinations showed that Mimi’s brain was a minefield that could threaten her life at any moment. The techniques available in Silicon Isle, even the whole of China, were insufficient to save her. She needed the best custom medical team the world had to offer, but such treatment demanded a commensurate price.
Everything was as it should be.
Scott knew very well why he had to manufacture hypocritical excuses to dress up his actions so that they didn’t seem so mercenary, despicable, even evil. He had to save himself, had to release what remained of his life from the grip of that dark shadow.
He believed that the ray of light was Mimi.
However, one final piece of the puzzle worried him.
Hirofumi Otogawa had told him that the sealed, refrigerated prosthesis had been identified by the automatic systems as a piece of medical waste and then sorted and packed into the waste shipped to Silicon Isle by computerized processing. In other words, no person needed to take responsibility for this accident. It was an error. The SBT security department was investigating whether similar accidents had occurred in the past. Improper disposal of prostheses infected with highly dangerous viruses would be a huge scandal, and the mass media would chase after the truth like drug-sniffing dogs who have scented cocaine.
An unanticipated error, Scott pondered. An error that might crash SBT’s stock and make Coltsfoot Blossom into a household name. And I’m the patch for the system error.
But what if it wasn’t an error at all?
The sun baked the road. Scott was soaked in sweat, and the Ducati cooked his thighs. He wanted to return to the hotel and take a shower. He increased the throttle, and the motorcycle followed the curve of the shore to the last exit. The Volvo he had shaken off was waiting for him.
Enraged, he turned the throttle to maximum and swept past the Volvo like a lightning bolt. In that half a second, he caught a clear glimpse of the driver’s face in the rearview mirror: a heart-shaped branding scar on his cheek. Instantly, Scott understood. The road he was on was hemmed in by steep slopes. He had nowhere to go.
His speed approached 120 kph. As he climbed over a hill, the light Ducati became airborne for a moment before dropping back onto the road. The Volvo was right on his tail and tried to pass him a few times, though Scott managed to stay ahead of him with some nimble maneuvers. Like a bird trying to capture a darting insect, the two shadows, one gray, one black, skimmed along the road one right after the other. The roar of the engines reverberated through the fields, and alarmed birds took flight.
The Volvo seemed to lose patience and began to press against the Ducati. A dull, solid thump; the two vehicles were one for a moment before separating, like a forceful, flitting goodbye kiss.
Another thud, much heavier this time.
Scott cursed and struggled to keep the bike upright. However, this contest between the motorcycle and the car was like a fight between a flyweight and a heavyweight, and Scott was doomed to lose. A piercing, grinding noise came from the right side of the Ducati as it was pressed toward the sharp, jagged rock wall on the side of the road.
Scott braked hard. The front wheel screamed against the ground and activated the ABS. The slim, graceful Ducati managed to squeeze between the narrow gap between the Volvo and the cliff, unharmed. Scott could almost feel the rough surface of the rocks barely scraping over his skin. He battled to keep the Ducati upright, but overcompensated and tumbled to the ground.
The Volvo also screeched to a stop. The driver didn’t get out, however, as if he was trying to confirm something. After Scott finally climbed to his feet and straightened the bike, the Volvo flashed its taillights twice, like a contemptuous grin, and sped away as though everything that had happened were but a meaningless game of tag.
Scott checked himself and found only a few scrapes. He got onto the Ducati, whose engine now sounded like the hacking coughs of a tuberculosis patient. Scott raised his head like a knight who has vanquished the windmill and slowly cruised toward the hotel.
* * *
A ludicrous scene was playing out at the negotiating table.
While the representatives of the three clans were in heated argument against Mayor Weng, the three clans also disagreed with each other. Lin Yiyu tried to interrupt multiple times, begging the three clans to forget the past and try to all take a step back for Silicon Isle’s future, but Luo Jincheng shouted him down, leaving him embarrassed and annoyed. Chen Xianyun seemed to contradict Luo Jincheng on every point, but spoke ambivalently on critical points. Only the Lin clan representative seemed interested in making a deal, and it was possible that they had already come to some secret understanding with the government. Scott sat to the side, looking dazed, as he waited for Kaizong’s translation. However, Kaizong’s expression was wooden and he paid no attention to the scene, as though his spirit was wandering elsewhere.
“What are they talking about?” Scott asked Kaizong. He had reached the limit of his patience.
Kaizong seemed to have been awakened from a dream, and replied in a sleepy voice, “You know: investment ratios, disposition of excess labor, land use planning, preferential policies … everything having to do with money.”
“Have they discussed the technology? Or all the benefits that will accrue to Silicon Isle because of the project? Their children and their children’s children will no longer have to breathe this shitty air or truck in drinkable water from far away.” Scott looked puzzled.
Kaizong turned to his boss and spoke in an almost chilly tone. “They don’t care, sir.”
Scott fell heavily against the back of his leather chair, looking thoughtful. “I’m finally beginning to understand why the Chinese are called the cleverest people, but not the most intelligent or wisest. Oh, I’m sorry, Caesar, if you are offended.”
“Not at all, Scott. I agree with you. Even if they sign this agreement, as long as these people run Silicon Isle, nothing will change.”
“We’ll see.” Scott patted Kaizong on the shoulder a few times.
The edge-enhancement algorithm for the prosthetic eye appeared still in need of improvement. It was supposed to imitate the lateral-inhibition functionality in the ommatidia of the compound eyes of horseshoe crabs. When Kaizong focused his gaze on one of the speakers, for example, the resolution of objects around the speaker would be decreased to enhance the clarity of the focus subject. However, the abrupt way the enhancement kicked in felt unnatural and made it hard for him to look about the room.
In the end, Kaizong chose to leave his gaze on the giant mural that formed the backdrop to the conference room. The lacquer painting had been donated by an ethnic Chinese businessman
living in Vietnam. Against a vivid black background, thin lines of gold, silver, lead, and tin sketched out the entirety of Silicon Isle, and then bits of nacre from the shells of marbled turban, abalone, and pearl oysters were added to form a mosaic. The workmanship was exquisite. Kaizong thought the scene looked familiar, but it took a while before he realized that it was the perspective of viewing the moonlit isle from the sea outside Tide Gazing Pavilion. In a flash, memories overwhelmed him like a flood and left his heart in turbulent confusion. Only a few weeks had passed since then, but that episode felt like it was from another era.
That clear, joyous face lit by the moon magnified in his mind. He missed her, missed her so much that it hurt. The pain was inside, like a needle trailing a long thread weaving between his organs until everything was tied up in knots and a single tug made everything ache.
Kaizong couldn’t say clearly how he felt about Mimi. Admiration? Curiosity? Commiseration? Protectiveness? Fear? Or maybe a combination of all of these? No, it was a deeper, more complex emotion that couldn’t be expressed in words, but one that could be felt through the visual signals transmitted by his prosthetic eye.
Some kind of broken, incomplete love?
All he knew was that he wanted to see her. Whether she was still Mimi or had already transformed into another kind of being.
However, the strike by the waste people had not only ruined Kaizong’s right eye but also led to the total collapse of the fragile peace that had held between the natives of Silicon Isle and the waste people.
The streets outside were strewn with long yellow police tape marking the edge of the town, and police sentries patrolled the line twenty-four hours a day. Waste workers not native to Silicon Isle who tried to enter the town had to present electronic authorization from their employer. Silicon Isle was under red alert. Fear, like the intermittent black rain, drenched the heart of every native. On the other side of the police tape, there was only silence and the ceaseless barking of chipped dogs echoing over the empty waste-processing spaces. Other than the twice-daily scheduled caravan that brought them food and water, there was no other contact with the waste people and no one knew what they were planning.
It was like the powerful supertyphoon that was about to make landfall within twenty-four hours. By international convention, though incongruous with its violent nature, the typhoon was named Wutip, meaning “butterfly” in Cantonese.
Kaizong understood the silent prayer behind the worried faces of the locals: I haven’t harmed the waste people; I shouldn’t have to worry about their vengeance. However, as long as they lived here, no one could claim to be fully innocent. Everyone had benefited in some manner by exploiting the blood and sweat of the waste people, even if it was just an insignificant bit of convenience. Everyone had, at one time or another, looked at the waste people with contempt or disgust, or insulted them with a careless or hurtful word. Everyone had had the thought, even if only momentarily, that the waste people were born low and that they were fated to live in the company of trash, destined to be filthy until their deaths.
He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.
Chen Kaizong thought about the country that he called home now. In that society that prided itself on being the very model of freedom, democracy, and equality, prejudice and discrimination had to take on more subtle and hypocritical forms. Invitations to clubs and parties were sent to prosthetic eyes to be read by retinal scanners; those who couldn’t afford to implant enhanced enzymes couldn’t buy special foods and beverages at supermarkets; those with genetic flaws might not even be able to obtain birth permits; the one percent could extend their lives by swapping out the components of their bodies endlessly, achieving a de facto perpetual monopoly on society’s wealth.
Kaizong shook his head lightly, not even noticing that he had sighed.
“Are you thinking about her?” Scott asked.
“Who? What?”
“That young woman, Mimi.”
Kaizong remained silent.
“You’ve changed a lot since coming here,” Scott said.
Kaizong shrugged.
“At first, you acted like a hero. Or at least pretended to be a hero. But now, you’re like a deserter.”
“I can’t do anything; I can’t save anyone.” Kaizong’s voice trembled and his eyes moistened. “I can’t even see her anymore.”
“When I was in the army, my drill sergeant told us, Never act like a Hollywood hero. A real hero knows the difference between an order, a mission, and life itself, and will prioritize them correctly at key moments.”
“The doctors tell me that she could die at any moment, and they don’t have the necessary medical expertise to treat her here.” Kaizong struggled to keep his voice calm. “But she belongs to the Luo clan, and so Luo Jincheng will use her as a bargaining chip.”
“I understand. I think this is a key moment for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple. If you think this recycling project is more important, then we need to forget everything else and focus on making a deal.” Scott paused for a moment. “On the other hand, if you think Mimi’s life is more important, then we need to negotiate with Luo Jincheng until we can find her and take her away. Fuck the project.”
“Are you testing me?” Kaizong’s face was full of suspicion.
“No. Look at them.” Scott gestured at the negotiating representatives. “What do they care about?”
“Money. Power.” Kaizong thought for a moment, and then added, “Maybe women … and their children.”
Scott grinned, revealing his perfect white teeth. “See, you do understand them. People are always paying too much for the wrong things, and I once made the same kind of mistake. I want you to think it over carefully before giving me an answer.”
Kaizong’s chair scraped against the floor. He shifted awkwardly to disguise his unease. The arguing voices of bureaucrats and merchants to the side seemed to soften and become more pleasing; their figures blurred and, like shadows or puppets, they mechanically repeated the same sentences. The immense lacquer mural behind them, in contrast, grew clearer and came into focus. The rare nacred shells twinkled like moonlit eyes, embellishing the picture of an ever-changing Silicon Isle buffeted by the waves of progress.
He was once a man who habitually avoided decisions and who comforted himself by claiming that the only logical choice was giving in to the invisible forces and patterns of history. Now, however, his eyes turned from hesitation to resolve. The decision was no longer difficult.
Kaizong slapped his hand down on Scott’s shoulder. He had never acted so familiarly with his boss, so unguarded. Scott’s wounds, still not fully healed, exploded with spasms of pain. He winced.
“Thank you.”
Kaizong’s eyes once again glowed with hope, and there was a trace more gratitude in his right eye than his left.
PART THREE
FURIOUS STORM
… you see perfection in imperfection itself. And that is how we should learn to love the world.
—Slavoj Žižek, Examined Life
15
The rain began at dusk and didn’t seem to ever want to stop.
The bright yellow police tape trembled in the wind, whistling intermittently. Raindrops dense as schools of fish traced diagonal lines in the warm, hazy cones of light cast by the streetlights. A change of the guard at the sentry post: salutes, water dripping from the black rubber raincoat, flowing into the rain boots, pooling at the feet. The new sentry shivered, blew out a mouthful of white mist that quickly dissipated in the wind. Though it was high summer in Silicon Isle, right now it felt as chilly as a damp cellar in winter.
On the other side of the line marked by the police tape, everything remained quiet. Occasionally, a few dogs rhythmically barked at each other in the dusk, hinting at some distant, empty space. The shack villages of the waste people resembled a mass graveyard where the black structures were corpses strewn abou
t without order in the tall grass. Faint light emitted from the seams of windows and doors like the orifices of the corpses, as though they were silently howling in their death throes. Their last breaths trembled in the wind and rain, at risk of extinguishing at any moment.
“I heard that they’re planning on cutting the water and food rations in half tomorrow.” Illuminated by the dim light, Li Wen stared at the dark, cold night outside. The rain struck the cheap corrugated iron roof, crackling like kernels popping in a kettle. “They are almost at the end of their rope.”
“We’re going to stay a step ahead of them,” Mimi said lightly as she inserted another vial of red liquid into the self-injector attached to the inside of her elbow. For the next twelve hours, it would steadily inject the high-energy fructose mixture into her veins, ensuring that her hypermetabolic brain could obtain enough ATP to continue to function normally. She had to pay a cost for this benefit: rapid shallow breathing, high body temperature, emotional instability. It wasn’t too different a feeling from falling in love.
This was the last vial in her possession.
“Everyone’s ready.” Li Wen heard the chipped dog inside the shack give a low snarl. He had cracked the software running on the chipped dogs, and, with Mimi’s help, transformed them into communication tools. When necessary, they could also become weapons.
“Have you recharged the spirit of Tide Gazing Beach?” Mimi asked.
“It’s ready and waiting for you in the shed. How did you manage to crack the wireless communication protocols?”
“The same way you open a lock with a key.”
This was the source of Li Wen’s unease. He understood the principle, but he couldn’t figure out the path she took to achieve the results. Mimi was no longer the ignorant waste girl he had once known, or maybe she had never been. The Mimi in front of him now was like a veteran weathered and tested by many wars whose strategies and plots were too deep for him to guess.