Chapter 16

Chapter 16 Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence

Before Diao Chan finished, a thunderclap split the sky over the ruin, detonating a blast like a hammer-blow from the heavens.

Zhao Meiyou: “No need to lay the atmosphere on that thick, thanks—so what’s your next move?”

Which is to say: How can I help?

“With your current strength, you can’t help me,” Diao Chan said after a beat. “I chose to disappear now partly because I’ve found a lead on the artificial brain, and partly because of Qian Duoduo—I can time it to catch the moment he comes out of the last ruin.”

Right, Qian Duoduo. Zhao Meiyou remembered something. “Is he government?”

“Archaeologists are technically on the government roster.” Diao Chan asked, “Why do you say that?”

“At our first meeting, he already knew your real name, but archaeologists mostly use codenames to protect their identities. For him to know your true name, there are only two possibilities: one, you’re very close; two, he can access classified government files.”

“If it’s the first, I’d have heard of him from you, so that’s unlikely.” Zhao Meiyou pivoted. “And Qian Duoduo is absurdly strong—his ability is ridiculous. If I were the Megalopolis government, I wouldn’t sit back and let a delicate group like archaeologists run unchecked. I’d plant a few aces among them—not many—just enough to clear the field when it counts.”

As he spoke, Zhao Meiyou looked at Diao Chan. “But you said you timed this to when Qian Duoduo would come out of the previous ruin—was that to arrange for me to meet him? You want to win him over? So his cooperation with the government isn’t ironclad after all...”

He thought for a few seconds, then lit up. “You want me to flip him—make him a double agent?”

Diao Chan clapped a few times. “Zhao Meiyou, talking to you is a breeze.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Zhao Meiyou said, all earnest. “But I think you’re giving me too much credit. Qian Duoduo is insanely strong—I damn near called him daddy. Who am I to turn him?”

“The last person you called daddy wound up as dumpling filling,” Diao Chan said. “Best not to abase yourself, nor reach for misapplied allusions, lest you obstruct the road to recognizing kin.”

Zhao Meiyou: “Didn’t get a word. Plain speech, please.”

“I’ve worked with Qian Duoduo a few times. He’s very famous among archaeologists—on the same tier as Guifei, maybe even stronger. Likewise, he doesn’t hide his name or his face.” Here Diao Chan seemed to recall something. “Right—you still haven’t seen what he looks like, have you?”

“Don’t remind me,” Zhao said, wincing. “I was just guessing whether he’s a he or a she.”

Diao Chan smiled. “Then you definitely won’t be disappointed.”

Now Zhao’s interest was piqued. “That confident?”

"Check for yourself once you're out," Diao Chan said with a wave. "He'll be waiting outside, no question. You're his temporary partner on this assignment; he'll take responsibility for your safety, all the way."

Zhao Meiyou rolled the words around, amusement flickering across his face. "So you're saying Qian Duoduo's a decent guy?"

"Qian Duoduo's an orphan, but his abilities were spotted early, and the government took him in when he was a kid. The first time I worked with him I sensed something—odd, familiar—and only much later did I figure out what it was."

Diao Chan patted Zhao Meiyou on the shoulder. "It was you."

"I don't have any long-lost half brothers or full brothers, thanks."

"Zhao Meiyou, you really can run your mouth." Diao Chan laughed. "I meant the feeling, not blood."

"What feeling?"

"That rainy night when we first met—the feeling I got when you handed me a bowl of dumplings at the butcher's," Diao Chan said. "Very similar, but not quite the same. If it had been Qian Duoduo, he might've boiled me a plain bowl of frozen dumplings."

"And if I told you what I cooked you back then were plain frozen dumplings too, would you believe me?"

"Too late to walk that back." Diao Chan clearly wasn't buying it. "Anyway, it took me a while to realize: if the Megalopolis Lower District can still produce anything like a 'normal' kid, it's either your kind or Qian Duoduo's."

Zhao Meiyou nodded. "Got it—we're both orphans, then."

"I'm an orphan too. In a sense, most kids in Megalopolis are orphans; raising children with both parents was buried with the old era." Diao Chan glanced at Zhao Meiyou. "Point is, I think you two will get along."

With the artificial brain at stake, they were essentially in a lopsided three-way standoff with the Megalopolis government and the Diao clan. Just the two of them were far too weak; if they could win over Qian Duoduo—a special operator who moved along the government's margins—he'd be a powerful ally.

Before Zhao Meiyou could spit out some lewd wisecrack, Diao Chan hurried through his plan: "From what I know, Qian Duoduo is prepping for a high-difficulty ruin expedition. He needs a partner; the spot isn't set yet. Your 'tragic loss of a dear friend' in the S45 ruin will make him feel guilty, and you're a rookie—so to make amends he'll play your guide for a while. Use the chance and get him to bite early."

"You said yourself it's a high-difficulty ruin," Zhao Meiyou said. "I'm a rookie—never mind whether I'm just going there to die. Why would he even want me?"

"That unkillable bug of yours is tempting enough. Qian Duoduo can access classified government files; he'll know what you can do," Diao Chan said. "Think about it—did he test you in the ruin?"

Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment, then remembered that dash through the subway, the slab of concrete that fell from nowhere and smashed him to pulp, brains spilling all over the floor.

And he didn’t die.

Fuck—so this is where you were waiting.

Zhao Meiyou gave him a knowing look and said a single word: “Fine.”

“ I’ll climb aboard your pirate ship. And after this, what’s your plan? Stay in the ruin? Is the government going to send more people in?”

“Don’t worry about this side. I won’t be going out for now—S45 is, after all, my home turf.”

Diao Chan raised the gun and leveled it at Zhao Meiyou’s head. “All right. Don’t keep them waiting.”

Zhao Meiyou: “Seriously? This is how you act when you’re asking for a favor?”

“Learned it from you.” Diao Chan suddenly smiled. “By the way, do you remember Zhao Bujiao’s pet name?”

A gunshot cracked.

Zhao Meiyou opened his eyes on the piano bench, his face pressed to the keys.

Diao Chan had called it: Qian Duoduo sat to one side, eyes lowered on him, plainly waiting for him to wake.

It was his first time seeing the man in the flesh, but Zhao Meiyou was sure—this was Qian Duoduo.

He wore an archaeologist’s uniform. The overhead light was so bright it cut like a blade, curving from the nape down the spine, then driving straight in at the waist, slitting the hem of his trousers and laying bare a slice of pale anklebone.

The glare made Zhao Meiyou’s head swim. It took him a while to steady himself. He cleared his throat. “Nice hair, Qian-ge.”

Qian Duoduo looked about his age, long hair tied back. Under the cold white light he had something of jade about him—not the polish that breeding gave Diao Chan, but more like ancient jade from a grave, slick and cool in a corpse’s mouth. Hard to pin down—like a cat, like a snake: beautiful, and a little chilling.

Then Zhao Meiyou remembered Qian Duoduo’s rampage in the ruin, tearing through like King Yama in the flesh, sparks and lightning all the way. Fine—call that ferocity, not eeriness.

He heard Qian Duoduo ask, “Why did you dodge Diao Chan’s first bullet?”

What a question—he almost laughed. Then it hit him: Qian Duoduo didn’t actually care what he’d done at the end in the ruin, and wasn’t really after an answer.

He just needed something to pass along.

To a written report, to government overseers—or because this room was being watched.

Right—surveillance. Zhao Meiyou suddenly remembered: the Megalopolis government can’t observe the quantum domain directly, but they can record via the monitors archaeologists carry. Headliner didn’t bow to anyone and naturally has ways to pull the wool over their eyes, so nothing showed up in the A173 ruin. But Qian Duoduo was groomed by the government.

Zhao Meiyou ran through what had happened in the S45 ruin and, finding no loose ends, relaxed into the lie. “So, uh, Qian-ge—I’m new at this, still green. A man without his lower half doesn’t exactly adjust overnight. Lost control for a second and flipped myself back.”

At that, Qian Duoduo turned, looked him over head to toe, then nodded as if confirming something. “Got it.”

"The S45 ruin will be classed as extreme hazard and sealed for the time being," Qian Duoduo said, lowering the piano lid. He pulled a file from the music stand and jotted a few lines. "A Government Commissioner may come to ask you some routine questions later. Just answer truthfully."

"Okay." Zhao Meiyou nodded as he listened. "Anything else, Qian-ge?"

Qian Duoduo wrote fast. Paper was rare in Megalopolis, yet he handled a pen like it was second nature. A long lock of hair slipped down by his cheek with the motion; he pushed it back behind his ear.

He didn’t answer the question. Just as Zhao Meiyou thought the silence would go on, he said, "You’ve got a mark on your face."

"Uh?"

Qian Duoduo finished the document, gathered it, and stood. He looked to be about half a head taller than Zhao Meiyou; he bent down, and his fingertip gave Zhao’s cheek the faintest tap—or perhaps it never touched him at all, yet Zhao Meiyou felt the damp wash of his breath. "When you came out of the ruin, your face slammed into the piano keys."

"This piano is custom-built. It’ll be put into cold storage afterward; it mustn’t be played again." Qian Duoduo turned to go. The sweep of his coat hem rasped over the papers, a dry rustle, and he seemed to murmur something as he went.

It sounded like, "I’m sorry about your friend."

After Qian Duoduo left, Zhao Meiyou sat on the bench for a moment and, steadying himself, thought: My god.

Goddamn, the man really was exactly like Diao Chan said.

They’d spent a good long while in the ruin. Back in the Lower District, Zhao Meiyou collapsed into sleep—his dreams, as usual, held nothing. When he woke, he went to work, put in a long-leave request for Diao Chan, and was sitting in the ER trying to figure out how to rope Qian Duoduo into his scheme when old Mr. De stuck his head in: "Kid, where’d you go raise hell over New Year?"

"What are you even talking about?" Zhao Meiyou blurted a greeting out of habit. "You take your meds today, sir?"

Old Mr. De ignored the meds and gave him a mysterious grin that made Zhao Meiyou break out in goosebumps. "Come on, if you’ve got something to say, say it. Don’t just stand there grinning—did a flower bloom on my face or what?"

"Kid, take a look in the mirror." Old Mr. De chuckled as he walked off. "Not just any flower—peach blossoms, right on your face!"

Baffled, Zhao Meiyou found a mirror and finally understood. He was having an allergic reaction: a red streak on his cheek. The psychiatric hospital had been quiet over the holiday, so no one had pointed it out—until old Mr. De saw it.

No wonder the old man said he had peach blossoms on his face and was grinning so shiftily. Zhao Meiyou stared at his reflection and clicked his tongue.

The patch of rash wasn’t large, about where the keys had hit him yesterday, but the outline was suggestive.

Like a lip print—bright red.

If a rash could stump Zhao Meiyou, he wouldn’t be Zhao Meiyou. He got himself some antihistamines and even asked specifically for a red ointment, then took a makeup brush to dab and blend, filling the inside and sharpening the blurred edges. What had been a vague outline of irritation he now painted into a pair of flaming red lips.

When you’re having an allergic flare, you’re not supposed to touch raw food. He ditched his part-time at the pork stall and, after his main shift, went straight out to eat. The “restaurant” was a pushcart parked outside the convenience store, an automated vendor of synthetic cooked food. It was raining tonight. Zhao Meiyou tapped fried rice on the screen, hit dine-in mode, and the cart’s red-and-white awning slid out, a dining counter and seats lifting into place.

“Zhao-ge, eating alone?” the convenience store girl leaned out the window; the orange bubble she was chewing popped with a snap. “Want me to keep you company?”

He snapped apart the foam chopsticks and pointed at the lipstick mark on his face. The girl cocked a brow, ducked back into the store, then tossed out a plastic bag. Inside were Marlboros and a canned beer. Zhao Meiyou glanced at it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m treating you!” her voice came from inside. “No one picks a place like this for a date. And you’ve just been kissed—so you got dumped, right?”

Enterprise-grade comprehension, Zhao Meiyou thought. I’d planned to play it like I’d just proposed successfully.

Fair point, though—who celebrates a successful proposal by eating in a place like this.

Cigarettes, beer, instant fried rice, and a rainy night. Zhao Meiyou sat at the cart; business looked bad—he was the only customer. Neon smeared across the window in the rain. Behind him, people in plastic raincoats came and went like strings of glowing code, dissolving into the dark.

In the Lower District there isn’t really day or night. It’s more like a computer shutting down and booting up: the difference in light and color is only whether the screen has power.

As he ate, Zhao Meiyou weighed whether to go back to his rented room or sleep in the ER. If he went home, the cat and dog food were running low; it was New Year—at least open them a can…

He thought of the Ideal City in Ruin S45. During the Orion War and the Great Cataclysm, humans were said to have nearly gone extinct—so how did cats and dogs make it?

Could they have been gene-made too?

But shouldn’t that tech be expensive? How does that square with people abandoning them at will? Or are these little guys actually some kind of roving mechanical cameras…

Am I really going to have to dissect one to find out…

Or has the cost of genetic products dropped so low they can be tossed aside at will?

If so, how many replicants like Diao Chan would there be in the Megalopolis?

...

Am I a replicant? Maybe, maybe not. Memory isn’t entirely reliable.

Then what about feeling? Intuition? Muscle memory? Mental reflexes?

...

Maybe I could ask the restaurant owner, Zhao Meiyou thought, drifting—the one next door to his place. The owner has a curious line he never crosses: he never kills cats or dogs.

Maybe it’s because he knows cats and dogs are gene-made, and so are the citizens of the Megalopolis—so he’d basically be eating his own.

...

Zhao Meiyou’s thoughts fanned out without destination. He lit a cigarette without thinking. The smoke felt like an extension of his thoughts, wavering in and out under the lamp.

Sometimes he slipped into a state like this. A quintessential Lower District creature—thick-skinned, untroubled—he was sound in body, slept like a stone, never dreamed; whatever this was, to him it might as well be a dream.

As if an old TV suddenly found its signal: the frame tunneled down a street; the abandoned amusement park lit up and opened—who were the guests?—colored balloons lifting into the sky; bathhouse tiles spilling downward; the lens slipping out of focus; why is a DVD binary; the amoeba just expired; Goldbach is singing; Marlboro hasn’t been discontinued yet and it’s on fire—

“Your cigarette.”

Zhao Meiyou flinched as if scalded, then realized the cigarette had burned down to the nub. At some point someone had taken the seat beside him, ordered the same fried rice. It was Qian Duoduo.

"...Thanks." Zhao Meiyou crushed the butt, picked up the pack. "Want one?"

Qian Duoduo's answer was unexpected. "Thanks. I don't smoke."

Zhao Meiyou blinked. "Qian-ge, you don't smoke?"

"My ability is the same type as Diao Chan's—quantum mimicry. We separate material out of the body and reinforce it. What I separate is smoke. It's just how the ability manifests; it isn't nicotine in any real-world sense."

Qian Duoduo shoveled up a heaping spoonful of fried rice; his cheeks puffed out, like he was starving. Seeing Zhao Meiyou pinch out the cigarette, he waved him off. "I don't mind the smoke. Please."

Zhao Meiyou made a small sound and watched him eat. For a lot of people around him, the way they ate was an extension of the subconscious. Diao Chan's cultured chewing concealed a streak of hysteria; in headliner's wolfing there was, in truth, a pent-up urge to retch. Qian Duoduo's way of eating made Zhao Meiyou think of his kid sister, the little girl who kept electronic sunflowers—an endangered species in Megalopolis, a child in the pure sense. Eating, for her, served two purposes only: to fill up and for taste. Nothing more.

"There was a lot to wrap up at the S45 ruin; I didn't have time to eat." Qian Duoduo seemed to realize his manners weren’t great and offered an explanation. "You won't be needed for the follow-up."

He sensed how that sounded, but couldn't reel it back. He could only add, dryly, "Sorry."

At last, as if his taste buds had finally shown up, he muttered, "...this fried rice is really bad."

Zhao Meiyou couldn't help but laugh at the whole sequence. "Hey, Qian-ge, no need to apologize to me." He waved a hand, trying to hide the grin, failed, and ended up clamping the cigarette between his teeth. "If anything, I should be the one saying it. I caused you a lot of trouble in the ruin."

"Your constitution is unusual." Qian Duoduo didn't bother to hide it. He must have eaten his fill; the air around him went professional and remote again. "I've read your file, Zhao Meiyou. As far as I know, you've just finished a month-long rookie period. The S45 ruin was a temporary assignment. If not for this rescue mission, your schedule would have been to keep testing your compatibility with other ruins."

Zhao Meiyou grunted assent. "My guide for the first month was Liu Qijue. By the plan, the next guide should be Diao Chan."

Qian Duoduo hesitated, then got to the point: "Would you let me be your guide?"

Zhao Meiyou showed just the right touch of surprise. "Qian-ge, you must be pretty strong, right? Be my guide?"

"Mutual benefit." As Diao Chan had said, Qian Duoduo was disarmingly frank about his aims. "I'm preparing an expedition into a high-difficulty ruin. I need a partner, haven't found the right one yet, and there's a lot of untapped potential in you."

After finishing a cigarette, Zhao Meiyou said, "The task email shows the next set of coordinates is for ruin A89, Qian-ge, you—"

"No need," Qian Duoduo cut him off. "If you choose me as your guide, I can get you through every suitable ruin in the shortest time, with the highest safety and efficiency." He paused, then added, "And I'm in a hurry too."

Zhao Meiyou smiled. "Looks like I don't have much reason to refuse."

Qian Duoduo let out the faintest breath of relief. "Then see you tomorrow?" He gave an address. "Four a.m.—can you make it?"

"Of course."

Qian Duoduo's figure dissolved into the rainy night. The convenience store girl came out with the card reader. "Brother Zhao Meiyou, pay me for the cigarettes and booze."

Zhao Meiyou drew his gaze back. "What?"

"Don't play dumb." The girl jutted her chin. "Aren't you the one with a boyfriend now?"

Zhao Meiyou: ...

For once he was speechless, then suddenly found it funny. He pressed a hand to his forehead and laughed for a while for no good reason, then nodded with mock solemnity. "Mm, I should pay."

He keyed Diao Chan's card number into the screen, thought for a moment, and tapped a few digits into the password field.

Beep-beep. Payment successful.

Zhao Meiyou glanced at the balance, spirits soaring—he felt he could live another hundred years. With a grand wave of his hand, he said, "Pack me fifty more assorted cans."

He lugged two big bags back to his rented room. Zhao Bujiao wove circles around his legs. As he cracked open cans, Zhao Meiyou muttered, "When did Diao Chan give you that nickname? I'd nearly forgotten."

He set the bowl on the floor, ran a hand over the cat's head, and hummed a few bars under his breath. Zhao Bujiao was snuffling away at the food, almost drowning out his song.

At last Zhao Meiyou smiled and said, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence."