Whoever he was, the soldier must have had good training. Bin could tell he was adapting, gathering himself, concentrating on solving problems. As the rollicking explosions diminished a little, the fellow stopped thrashing and his rapid gasps ebbed into more regular breathing. When he started to experiment, exhaling a vertical stream of bubbles to clear and fill his goggles, Bin knew there was little time left to make a clean getaway. He picked up the pace, fumbling to find the opening. Only it took some effort while hauling the heavy…
He stopped, as sharp illumination erupted from an object in the soldier’s hand, engulfing Bin and the dormer window.
Aided by the implant, Bin’s right eye adapted, even as the left was dazzled. Because the implant laid a disc of blackness over the bright torchlight, he could tell it was part of a weapon-a small sidearm the soldier aimed at Bin’s chest.
For several seconds, Bin stood and exchanged a long look with the soldier, who drifted almost within arm’s reach. Slowly, without jerky motions, Bin pointed at the torch… then at the dormer entrance… then jabbed his thumb upward several times.
Whoever is chasing you may see that light, streaming out of the ruins… and drop something unpleasant on us.
The soldier apparently grasped his meaning and slid a control or sent a subvocal command. The light source dimmed considerably and become all-directional, dimly illuminating the whole chamber so they could see each other…
… and Bin realized, he had been mistaken. The interloper was a woman.
Several more seconds passed, while the soldier looked Bin over. Then she laid the weapon down nearby-and used her right forefinger to draw several quick characters on the palm of her left hand.
You are Peng Xiang Bin.
Palm-writing was never a very good form of communication, all by itself. Normally, folks used it only to settle ambiguity between two spoken words that sounded the same. But down here, it was the best they could manage. Anyway, the flurry of movements sufficed for Bin to recognize his own name. And to grasp the import-these invaders had come across the ocean well prepared.
Only now things seemed to be going badly for them.
But it would be rude to point out the obvious. So he finally responded with a brief nod. Anyway, she had expressed it as a statement, not a question. The soldier finger-wrote three more ideograms.
Is that the thing?
She finished by pointing to the satchel Bin clutched tightly, holding the worldstone. There was little use denying it. A simple shrug of the shoulders, then, to save air.
She spent the next few seconds sucking on the tube from the barely adequate emergency gill, then exhaled another stream of bubbles to refill her goggles. Her eyes were red from salt water and rimmed with creases that must have come from a life engaged in scrutiny. Perhaps a technical expert, rather than a front-line warrior-but still part of an elite team. The kind who would never give up.
As combat sounds drifted farther away, she wrote another series of ideograms on her left palm. This time, however, he could not follow the finger movements well enough to understand. Not her fault, of course-probably his own, deficient education-and this time the aimplant in his eye offered no help.
He indicated confusion with a shake of his head.
Frustrated, she looked around, then shuffled half a meter closer to the nearest slanted attic wall. There, she used the same finger to disturb a layer of algae-scum, leaving distinct trails wherever she wrote.
Are you a loyal citizen?
She then turned, patting a badge on her left shoulder. And Bin noticed, for the first time, the emblem of the armed forces of the People’s Republic of China.
Taken aback, he had to blink. Of course he was a loyal Chinese! But citizen? As a shoresteader, he had some rights… but no legal residency in either Shanghai or any of the great national cooperatives. Nor would he, till his reclamation contract was fulfilled. All citizenship is local, went the saying… and thus, two hundred million transients were cast adrift. Still, what did citizenship mean, anyway? Who ever got to vote above the province level? Nationwide, “democracy” tended to blur into something else. Not tyranny-clearly the national government listened to the People-in much the same way that Heaven could be counted on to hear the prayers of mortals. The Reforms of 2029 had not been for nothing. There were constituent assemblies, trade congresses, party conclaves dominated by half a billion little emperors… it all had a loose, deliberately traditionally and proudly non-Western flavor. And none of it ever included Peng Xiang Bin.
Still, am I proud to be Chinese? Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? We lead the world.
Yet, that wasn’t what loomed foremost in his mind.
What mattered was that he had been noticed by illustrious ones, somewhere high up the pyramid of power, obligation, and privilege. By people who were mighty enough to order government special forces on a dangerous and politically risky mission, far from home.
They know my name. They sent elite raiders across the sea to fetch me. Or, at least the worldstone.
Not that it was certain they’d prevail. Even grand national powers like China had been outmaneuvered, time and again, by the planetary New Elites. After all, the woman soldier was hiding down here, with him.
No. One consideration mattered, more than citizenship or national loyalty. Even as the rich escaped to handmade sovereignties like New Pulupau, old-fashioned governments still controlled the territories where billions of ordinary people lived-the festering poor and struggling middle classes. Which meant one thing to Bin.
The high masters of China have Mei Ling and Xiao En in their hands. Or they could, at any time. I truly have no choice.
In fact, why did I ever believe I had one?
Bin shifted his weight in order to lean over and bring his own finger toward the slanted, algae-covered boards. Even as he drew a first character, the ai in his eye remonstrated.
Don’t do this, Bin.
There are other options.
But he shook his head and grunted the code word they had taught him for clearing the irritation away. The artificial presence vanished from his right field of vision, allowing him to see clearly the figures that he drew through filmy scum. Fortunately, by now the explosions had faded again, letting him trace the strokes carefully.
I’m just here to buy soy sauce.
The soldier stared. From her befuddled look, Bin knew she must not be from China’s central coast, where that old joke still tugged reflex guffaws, even from coolies working on the New Great Wall. Well, humor had never been his thing. Bin moved his finger again and wrote:
I will aid my nation.
What must I do?
An expression of satisfaction spread across the soldier’s face. Clearly, this was better fortune than she had figured on, only moments ago, when she jumped from a balcony of Newer Newport into the uncertain refuge of ocean-covered ruins. Perhaps, this little royal attic still had powerful qi.
She started to write again, across the scummy, pitched ceiling.
Very good. We have little time…
Bin agreed. Less than five minutes of highly compressed gas remained in his tiny air tank. That is, if he could trust the tiny clock in his goggle lens.
Nearby… a submerged emergency shelter… where we’ll wait…
The soldier stopped suddenly, as if her body froze, eyes masked in shadow. Then, as she turned like a marionette tugged by swirling currents, he saw them glint with fear.