Even so, it is still possible to snatch the meat out of a tiger’s mouth.
Speech at the Conference of Provincial, Municipal, and Autonomous Region Party Secretaries, Mao Zedong, 01/27/1957
Yan’an, Shaanxi, China, PRA, Earth, 05/29/2228, 0700 hours
Two years ago
Tanglewire Sidewinder sits anxiously at a park in Yan’an. He does not like being alone. Easier to be part of a crowd, and nobody ever suspects the big, loud guy in the room. Right now, alone on a park bench, waiting to meet a mysterious liaison — the only concession the PRA government would offer him — Tang feels uncomfortably exposed.
“Hello, soldier.”
Tang nearly jumps out of his seat. The person standing behind him may as well have materialized out of thin air, given how quiet their approach was.
“Jesus, man, I couldn’t even hear you coming.”
The tall, gaunt person sits down next to him. They are wearing a simple grey soldier’s uniform — unadorned, with no rank or branch. They look seriously at Tang.
“And you never will. I’m told you had a proposition for us. Unfortunately, time is always against us. You will have to be brief and convincing.”
Tang stares at them, gaping.
“You are Ka Zhengming?” The agent of the PLAA is absolutely unreadable.
“You may refer to me as Zhengming. We will see if you earn the right to call me Ka Zhengming.”
“Uh, understood, sir.” This comment does bring a bright flash of something in Zhengming’s eyes. A flicker.
“And you will certainly, absolutely, and most critically, never refer to me as sir. We do not do that here. Are we clear?”
“Yes, s— uh, yes.”
“Good. What is it you wish to propose.”
“Oh.” Outside. Broad daylight.
“Here?”
“Yes, here. What is it you wish to propose.” Zhengming is an unyielding wall.
“I— I want to join the PLAA. I want to defect.”
“As do many, and few will. You are an unproven asset. A liability. What do you offer.”
“I can offer information, materiel schematics.”
“Mmm.”
“And— and I know the inside of a THRONE better than anyone, I can assist with engineering design.”
“Your use of the empire’s term betrays you. You people, with your angelology, your theology. We do not need engineers for the creation of mechanized armors. China has plenty. What else can you offer.”
“I can help with piloting! I’m one of the best in the fleet, I—”
“Stop. We’re done here. I’m sorry.”
“W-wait! I can bring schematics… For Thanatic weapons.”
Zhengming betrays nothing. But they do not leave.
“I will confer with my superiors. Wait here.”
And Zhengming walks away. Silently. Betraying nothing and no one.
Time passes. An hour, maybe two. Is this a test?
Tang watches the clouds go by, high above the mountains. At least it’s beautiful here. Reminds me a little of home.
A group of children run by, laughing. Kicking a ball between them. Playing one of those games that is immediately legible to children, and fundamentally inscrutable to adults.
Tang watches them run past and sees only the smear on the bottom of the TEN RIGHTEOUS’ foot. Heaven is collapsing down on him, threatening to smear him against its own boot. His heart pounds. Sweat beads on his forehead.
The children see the man sitting on the bench, alone, sweating, terrified. They run up to him, laughing, asking him questions in a tongue he does not speak. They offer him the ball.
He looks at the ball, and back at the children. Sees himself as a little girl, playing by herself, listening to the soldiers march past.
The children look at him quizzically. They offer the ball again, say something else he does not understand. He wipes his forehead on the back of his hand. And then he smiles at them.
Another hour or two. Tang is playing with the children, trying to teach them a game he only half-remembers with a language they do not share. He gesticulates to communicate the rules of the game. Like a charade.
The children laugh at his motions, but they follow intently, watching, learning. Eventually, he and the children both come to realize that Tang does not actually know the rules to this game himself.
So he makes them a new one.
The children love it. They run back and forth, around the park, passing the ball to each other in the unbidden joy of focused play.
Tang waves at them as they start to wander home. They smile and wave back.
“I return with word from my superiors.”
Again, Tang nearly jumps, startled, then looks at Zhengming, expectantly, as if awaiting his sentencing.
“They approve your mission strategy. You will be deployed back to your Rumsfeld. You will transfer files to this transmission node. They will be plans for Thanatic arms. You will do this until such a time that it is deemed your mission is complete, at which point, you will be integrated here, in the PLAA, as an infantry soldier. And you will report to me and me alone. We will meet back here, at this location, in one year’s time. Is this understood?”
“Yes! Yes.”
“Good.”
Zhengming smoothly reaches into their pocket, pulls out a small personal drive, hands it to Tang.
“What is this?”
“Your reading. While you are aboard your Rumsfeld, you will educate yourself. On history. On theory. And on the People.”
“I…”
“You consider this a burden. Understand that it is a gift. It is also a burden. To understand the wrongness of the world you live in is always this way.”
“…Understood. Thank you. For the gift.”
“Mmm.”
“Lastly, it is customary for prospective defectors and undercover assets to select a new name. You may think of it as a codename, if it suits you. To mark a new beginning. This is also a gift.”
“Oh.” Tanglewire Sidewinder has never thought about being anyone he was not already. He suddenly understands that this was always the problem.
“It is a personal choice. But you should decide quickly. I must go.”
“—Kailani! It’s— aunty used to call me that. My name as a little girl.”
“Understood. Until we meet again, Agent Kailani.”
No fanfare. No forms. He was asked to pick a name, and he chose one, and that was it.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Tang opens his datapad, plugs in the personal drive. There are hundreds of documents here.
As he skims the list, his eyes land on one title.
Hawaii’s Story by Hawaii’s Queen.
Tang opens the file. Hands shaking.
He reads the book. And he weeps.