JINTAO
Jack Philip Hall
Copyright 2012 Jack Philip Hall
Smashwords Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book has been in the works for many long years and through many revisions. To J who stood by me and never doubted that I would finish it some day. And thanks to Cliff who read the first version of JINTAO years ago and told me, rightfully, that the ending was not good enough.
Please note that whether you purchased this book or it was purchased for you, it is for your personal use only. It is not to be re-sold or given to others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
CHAPTER ZERO
Master Jintao looked closely at his Angstrom suit, stroking the dark blue fabric, appreciating its design. It was one of his favorites, crafted in the highest art, of self-cleaning fabric and impeccable tailoring, seamless and indestructible. Deservedly, over time he had acquired an extensive collection of the obscenely expensive garments, durable symbols of his status and accomplishments. He stopped and chuckled. In a nuclear storm, as his body flashed to ash and poofed away, the suit would survive, standing on its own, an ediface of technology, devoid of humanity.
Lifting the suit he said, "Stow." A chromium arm swung down from the overhead gantry and spirited the garment away.
"Done," he said, and a mirrored panel silently descended, relegating the suits to darkness. Nitrogen gas whispered within.
Pin-narrow bands of morning light passed through the shuttered dressing room, drawing grid lines across the Picassoesque ottoman and chair, tracing the contours of his bare body. The striped reflection stared back at him. It could have been the reflection of a fit, middle-aged man: tall, lean and toned, with a square jaw and a shock of dark hair. Yet, as he knew only too well, on that overcast morning, he was one hundred and ninety-eight years old.
Eyes smiled and a criss-cross pattern formed on the lower lids. Lightly poking the skin with a long finger, he observed its slow recovery, a sign of depleted elastin and collagen. In front of his medi-bot chamber, he uttered a single word. "Dermagen." The door opened. He stepped inside. The door slid back on its semi-circular track. Whuff. A green mist of biologically active molecules surrounded him. Laser light pulsed and infusion began.
Last of the industrious Jintao bloodline, his ancestral obligations had inoculated him from birth, preparing him for the helm of the family's megacorp. With doctorates in molecular engineering and international business, he assumed the role of CEO in his mid-seventies, using his position as a capstan from which to raise the company to greater heights. After assembling a world class engineering team, he was able to transmute even his most ambitious visions into reality and the company became legend, producing scores of intricate systems: orbital power stations with ground receptors, assay machines and transporter systems.
Economies shifted and the winds of providence favored China, sweeping it to the lead while weaker nations struggled with intractable debt. Capitalizing on good fortune, the Jintao Corporation prevailed, becoming a juggernaut of international trade, plowing through the hostile waters of global commerce, leaving companies too large to fail, floundering in its wake.
Although corporate duty became the greater part of his life, it would be unfair to say that was his only interest. He had reveled in his younger days: climbing to the summit of Everest and making an outrageous attempt to glide from there to Shigatse, falling short by only sixteen kilometers due to bad weather. He had piloted a personal sub eleven thousand meters into the Mariana trench, to the Challenger Deep, and he walked on orbiting research platforms, a panoply of stars rotating above him. He dated some of the most desirable women of his time and patronized the arts, carousing nightly with his group of elite peers, enjoying a life of opulence and culture. On balance, perhaps because of his excesses, he also possessed a reflective side. There had always been times when he chose to be alone - to contemplate the deeper mysteries.
Having no siblings and no offspring, the dynasty's future rested precariously on his shoulders and the burden was ceaseless. There had been a period in which he suffered restless nights, where repetitive dreams interrupted his sleep - often dreams of a son he did not have. He deliberated for decades on the idea of a mate and the maintainence of a long term relationship, but the idea was daunting. At last he came to a more direct solution, a clinical solution. He went beyond traditional cloning, reengineering his DNA with resonant variation, producing a naturalistic embryo, and employing a surrogate to bring the child to term.
He was pleased with the boy's uniqueness. He provided the best tutors, trainers and planners, and he made time to teach the boy the ways of his birthright: the value of knowledge, the skills and use of privilege. Each birthday was celebrated with clever gifts that taught as well as entertained, and to his delight, the boy grew strong and confident, maturing into an intelligent and personable young man.
Stepping from the medi-bot chamber, his ears picked up distant rumblings: storm clouds beginning to unleash their charge. Within minutes, rain pattered against the lofty windows curving overhead, each drop reflecting the sky above, the sea below. As the sky darkened, hidden actuators silently turned, opening the wet aluminum shutters, pin-narrow ribbons of light gradually widening across the dressing room floor.
Returning to the mirror, nimble fingers touched his upper cheek; the tissue was supple again, of indeterminate age. He felt his chin: strong, like his father's and like his son's. A memory edged into view: a time when he had shaved and the laser seemed to guide itself while he focused on the day's work ahead. Eyes reflecting in the mirror stared at him with unwavering confidence; everything was exactly as it should be. His son had gone away to college and, in the six intervening years, a change had come over him. For the first time in his life he felt free - absloutely free.
Taking hold of his arm, he felt the muscles - still firm, the ligaments still supple. It was amusing he thought. In front of him stood the quintessential humanoid: a hominid analyzing itself. At a deeper level he knew what he was, an aggregate of trillions of cells hoping to understand their genesis, spawned from microscopic coils of protein, countless molecules held together by unseen forces. He had come to accept his body for what it was: a gift, an endowment from an anonymous benefactor. Even now, with all that he had come to know, it was still a precious enigma.
Many times he had longed to be free from the helm, free to explore the deeper mysteries, curiosity having always been central to his nature. But there had never been a good time to break away. Spontaneously, he had decided the best time was now. Ready at last, he was bound for a special place, a place where he could contemplate without interruption, a place he called the 'estuary'.
Beyond the shutters, in the rooftop garden, imbricated banana leaves gleamed in green wetness. Kilometers away, a legion of storm clouds drifted across the South China Sea, menacing the smaller islands, heading toward New Hong Kong.
CHAPTER ONE
It was early evening and rivulets of rain were cascading down the seamless glass walls of the penthouse. Overhead, wet air-borne vehicles sped past, glistening forms with trailing sprays that seem to hesitate before falling hundreds of meters to the pedways below. The Jintao housekeeper was standing next to the outer glass wall, her dark Asian eyes examining a wisp of vapor that had materialized in front of her. Twisting and folding on itself, shimmering like perspec in a breeze, she wasn't sure just what it was, or whether it was inside or outside the window. Perhaps a reflection, she thought, squinting it into focus. The light plays tricks. Rotating slowly, the thing faded from view, as if avoiding closer inspection.
Turning away, she crossed the room, stopping at the large polycarbonate table, clear as diamond: at its center, a vase with the cut flowers she had carefully arranged: hybrid freesia, deep blue iris and delicate calla lilies. How simple and pure they were: no memories, no thoughts, but still transpiring, siphoning water even in death. At the far end of the table, a solitary place setting of gold and bone china stood waiting... waiting for master Jintao.
Decades earlier, when she was given the opportunity to serve as master Jintao's housekeeper, the offer came with a single requirement: she was to change her identity to Ning, the name of his previous housekeeper. It made no difference to her; the elevated status was ample reward. She underwent voice coaching and few minor appearance modifications and, after a short while, as these things go, it was as if she had always been Ning.
Walking again to the outer glass wall, she was unfazed by a vehicle slowly cruising past, its curious occupant eyeing the penthouse. The one-way mirror glass concealed her. She waited there, looking down to the glistening structures of South Point: magnificent hives for a privileged few. She waited for the soft bell tone that would announce the arrival of her benefactor's glide as it silently entered the rooftop bay.
Minutes trickled by.
There had been no com talk. Although unusual, it was alright; he was a man of great responsibility and important work. His habit, she knew from experience, was to work through his daily checklist until the last item was complete. And yet... this was the first time she hadn't been informed of a change in schedule.
Walking through the extensive quarters of the penthouse, she passed the kitchen and her room, pausing at the master's son's room, closed since he left for university. She continued on toward the guest wing, passing the atrium and the master's suite with its lush terrace, dressing room and private study, returning at last to the great front room. Once again from her lofty perch she looked over the dwellings below, to the deep waters of the China sea, her thoughts as obscure as the distant horizon. The turbulent waters suddenly became visable, lit by a lightening pop inside a perilous cloud. Her fingers followed a loose strand of hair to the back of her head, tucking it carefully into the bun.
Almost an hour now and no com talk. Her finger touched a quadrant of the metallic disk on her wrist and the house responded, projecting a menu. Opening a line, she placed the call. It bipped without answer. She could only guess the reason: he is working on the Zeurb acquisition, or maybe expansion of Jintao Space or the hostile stock trades she had heard him talk about. Pressing the disc again, she spoke the company name. Department icons winked into view. The hour is late; com center has gone auto.
"Operator," she said.
Head and shoulders of an avatar appeared in front of her, its face expressionless, lips barely moving, enunciating in perfect Mandarin. "Housekeeper Ning - you've reached Jintao Corporation. How may we assist you?" -----
"Dr. Jintao was expected over an hour ago. I
need to know when he will be here. If he's engaged, please do not
disturb him."
"Please wait." The hologram froze,
its protocol opening several channels simultaneously, sending search
routines bursting across the corporate net. A dozen nanoseconds
later, the avatar reanimated. "Egress history for Dr. Jintao:
last departure confirmed - yesterday, aeropad B, eighteen hundred
hours, fifty-three minutes. No scheduled meetings. No transponder
signal. Transporter activity negative. Com link unresponsive."
The avatar continued its report with pre-programmed assurances that
appropriate personnel would be notified and Ning would be contacted
as soon her employer was located. Ning disconnected before the
standard, "Thank you for thinking of the Jintao Corporation."
Wrestling with the information that master Jintao had not gone to his office since the previous day, her apprehension elevated to a new level. With no indication on either the household calendar or the corporate docket to explain where he had gone, what should she do? He was a multifaceted man, dealing with complexities that were beyond her realm of understanding. He was certainly not to be held accountable by those in his employ.
Ning went to the kitchen galley and commanded the NutriSynth system, changing dinner from delay to halt. She ordered the cabinet shelves to rotate, bringing down a large ceramic jar, embossed with clouds and five fingered dragons. The jar hissed as she released its vacuum seal. Taking out pale green tencha leaves, she spread them on the countertop. Carefully, she de-veined and de-stemmed the leaves, transferring them into a stone mortar. She began grinding them. The resulting talc-like matcha powder would be combined with milk, cooked, chilled and turned into green tea ice cream for the master's dessert, an ancient recipe he was fond of... a recipe that would take time.
While Ning tended to her cookery, security protocols at Jintao corporation branched out, looping for sixty minutes, attempting to locate the CEO; ultimately returning no data. Automatically, a report was dispatched to Prefecture Enforcement. Within minutes, hospital logs were scanned and detectives began conducting face-to-face interviews at private clubs where the senior Jintao held memberships - clubs where the detectives often found delinquent executives.
Before the hour was up, a lone detective appeared at the rooftop door of the Jintao penthouse. The doors ring tone sounded and hi-res image projected inside the door: a middle aged woman with steely eyes, standing uncomfortably as rain shed from her thin plastic hood. Introducing herself in a mannish voice, the detective held up a backlit ID badge: Lieutenant Zhao. The house authenticated her by facial scan and Ning opened the door. Taking the wet raincoat, she hung it in the HEPA stream and led the lieutenant to the great front room.
Zhao surveyed the room before settling into a chair next to Ning. Then, studying the housekeeper for a moment, she unbuttoned a jacket pocket and withdrew a small yellow card, NHKPE printed in black across its face. Placing the card on the crystaline table between them, she asked permission to record. Ning took her time before answering, considering the request. They both sat straight, backs not touching the chairs, neither of them relaxed, the detective's eyes fixed on her. Hesitation was not unusual in situations like this, formal depositions often made subjects uncomfortable. Zhao knew this and she knew the liars when she saw them. Ning wasn't one of them. However, she did see something unusual: Ning's pupil dialation did not fluctuate. There were several explanations that could account for this and Zhao held the observation aside.
After a long moment Ning conceded.
Giving a reassuring smile, as if Ning had done the right thing, Zhao began to speak in rapid cadence, "Sector fourteen interview; Jintao residence; Jan 17; insert time stamp. You are Ning, Dr. Jintao's housekeeper. Is that correct?"
"Yes. That is correct."
"When did you last see Dr. Jintao?"
"Last night."
"So you didn't see him today?"
"No. He was gone when I came on duty."
"What time did you come on duty?"
"Seven thirty AM, as every morning."
"And you haven't heard from him since?"
"No."
"Has he been absent without notice before?"
"Not since I have worked for him. It's been over twenty years," she said, looking down and smoothing the lap of her gray uniform. "He always lets me know if he's going to be late."
"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"
"There are many places. I have many ideas, but I would only be guessing and that wouldn't be helpful."
"I understand," said the detective. "He had no personal appointments today?"
"None that I am aware of."
"Any medical conditions?"
"No, of course not."
Ning appreciated the lieutenant's directness; her questions followed a logical path but why was she asking about medical conditions? With the advent of molecular intervention, hardly anyone had a medical condition worth asking about. Ning considered the possibilities. Perhaps there had been an accident. She asked about hospitals.
Even though Zhao had checked en route, as a courtesy she conjured up a current log of reported injuries, projecting it into the space in front of them. "At this time there are no accidents and he hasn't been admitted to an ER." Zhao's eye caught a glide passing close to the windowed wall and she spontaneously asked. "Who else lives here?"
"No one. Dr. Jintao's son is away at college."
"I'll need contact information for his family and friends."
"I can help with the names. Just a moment." Ning stated the request and the house responded with a list of contacts. Flicking the air with a forefinger, she carefully considered each name as she went down the list, highlighting the ones that her master had frequent contact with. "These are people he coms. You may download their links. Considering the circumstance, they should welcome your questions."
Zhao held her yellow card up to the address book and thumbed a few commands. Menus whipped by and a channel opened. Names and numbers were downloaded and the card was promptly returned to the table. Zhao's tone became more serious. “Does he have enemies? Anyone who might wish him ill?"
"No, of course not," said Ning, perplexed. "You must know Dr. Jintao is a citizen in excellent standing." Again, an unexpected question. How could she think such a thing? The idea that someone might want to harm Dr. Jintao. Enemies? It was indefensible. Her thoughts raced.
Sensing her disquiet, Zhao put in, “Don’t be alarmed. These are just routine questions. Most likely he's fine and we'll locate him soon. The best thing for you to do is to be patient. With your permission I'll upload my contact info. I want you to call me if anything comes to mind.”
“Yes. Yes, of course," said Ning, still registering the new possibilities.
Over the next four hours Ning initiated two more conversations with detective Zhao, who was reassuring even though she had no news of master Jintao's whereabouts. She told Ning they were analyzing transportation records and surveillance feeds and a picture of the executive was rotating on public view in every neighborhood. Associates, merchants and even street vendors had been questioned and dozens of leads were being pursued.
A few minutes before midnight, it became obvious to Ning that the situation would not be resolved soon. She accepted the possibility that something unfortunate might have happened to the senior Jintao and she opened a com line to her employer's only child, Simoon.
Oxford, England
Reclining in the sling of his Sosai workstation, the young Jintao was wrapped in hermetic concentration. Inside his cyber cocoon, scrolling through a dissertation he was to deliver in a month's time, he searched for gaps in the logical progression, oblivious to the world around him. Debussy played in the background and the view field surrounding him cast a soft glow on the plastered walls. Dozens of dialogue boxes lined the field’s edge, portals to research notes and simulations. He had worked for several hours and was beginning to tire when the BIP BIP BIP - BIP BIP BIP sounded. Eyes darted to the flashing message at the bottom of field:
4:11:03 PM Tuesday, January 16, 2205
ORIGIN: New Hong Kong CALLER: Ning
Ning was like family, yet it had been a year since he'd seen spoken to her. He answered with a casual greeting, "Hao jui bu jian." (Long time, no see.) She looked exactly as he remembered: round cheeks, thinly lidded dark eyes capped with small circumflex eyebrows, familiar creases at the corners of her eyes and across the bridge of her nose.
"Nin hao, young master," she said. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I have something of importance to tell you." Her voice was serene, a voice he had known for as long as he could remember.
"Good to hear from you. News you say. What news?" he inquired, wondering why she was calling so late, and being so formal.
Ning paused, hoping to find a way to soften the blow. Her eyes closed, lids flickering, searching... After a moment, unable to compose a diplomatic artifice, she came directly to the point. "Your father has gone missing."
Step by step she recounted what had happened, careful to include every detail. Even though her voice was soothing, the news was provocative and Simoon felt more and more detached as he listened. Can this be real, he wondered. It didn't fit. His father's life was so well organized and predictable. Surely there was a reasonable explanation. Had a note been left? either in the house or in the com system? No, was the answer. Couldn't his glide beacon be tracked? Again, the answer was no. Certain that his father would eventually turn up, finding it absurd to think otherwise, he thanked Ning for her diligence and asked that she stay in touch with the detective, and to com the moment there was any news.
Raking through the facts he was unable to continue his work. Ning's afterimage lingered in his mind. The sensurround field phased out and he rotated his sling to its upright position. He sat, running fingers through his short black hair, furrowing the puzzle over and over again. The Jintao penthouse was a two minute flight down the glide path from company headquarters: across the central valley to the South Point cluster. His father routinely traveled by corporate glide and the glides were zero-defect rated, as was everything in his father's world. The glides had tracking beacons and his father was an assiduous communicator, always in contact with his office. It didn't add up... someone must know.
Then the full weight of the conversation hit him. The end of the line: his father had no siblings and Simoon was his only son. Without his father, he would be the last of the Jintao bloodline, heir to the dynasty. His chest heaved and emptiness filled him. Master Jintao was the only family he had ever known.
Stepping away from the workstation, his eyes lifted to the timber and daub of a gothic revival ceiling and the small window high above, shedding hazy beams of light. Suddenly he was struck by how much his small Victorian room looked like a crypt. There are professionals on the ground doing what they're trained to do. What should I do? He would want me to stay - finish the thesis. No. Impossible. I can help find him.
One floor below, Simoon's bànlu was humming a tune as she ascended a staircase in the antique row house, her silky black hair swaying at the middle of her back. Reaching the top floor, her almond shaped eyes opened wide. Simoon was standing there, on the landing, socks against the wooden floor, a hollow look on his face.
"The post just arrived. There's a package for
us." said Sealy, taking in his troubled expression. "What's
the matter?"
He told her about the call from Ning, the
search for his father, the detective, and his urge to leave. As he
spoke, she stepped in closer, listening carefully, feeling his
anguish. "Your father is an important man. I'm sure everyone is
looking for him. We can go, but what about your thesis?"
"I'll ask the mentors to hear it right away."
"Is it finished?"
"It'll have to do."
CHAPTER TWO
Simoon managed to wrap up his thesis while Sealy prepared for the trip home. On their last day in Oxfordshire, she came across the container they had received the day Ning called. "We haven't opened this," she said.
"What is it? Who's it from?" asked Simoon.
She turned the container over and over. "Odd, the postmark is China but it has our address as the to and the from."
"Here, let me have a look." With a tug, he freed the end of an orange sealing strip, peeling it from the container. As he did so, a narrow bead of clear gel appeared at the parting line and evaporated, freeing the upper half of the container. Inside was a small metallic cylinder suspended in open cell foam. Plucking it from its nest, he gave it a twist and removed the top, revealing an object the size of a thumb, covered with reddish brown fur, a gold chain dangling from one end. "A rabbit's foot," said Simoon, stroking the fur with his forefinger.
"I've never seen anything like that."
"Here," he said, handing it to Sealy, "have a look."
She felt something beneath the fur and back-stroked the hairs, revealing tiny claws. "Eeuuu, it's a dead thing. That's grotesque," she said, quickly handing it back. "Who would send such a thing?"
"Haven't you seen one of these before? It’s
a talisman: for good-luck, supposed to bring prosperity, or
fertility; I forget which. Maybe it's a belated union present."
"It’s barbaric and who knows what kind of diseases are on
that thing. I need to sani my hands," she said, stepping into
the kitchen galley. "Is there a note?"
Looking inside the package, he replied, "No, nothing else."
"Gross," said Sealy, rubbing her hands under the Sanihood's blue light. "Throw it away."
"I like it. I'm keeping it." he said, tucking the charm inside its metal cylinder and tossing it into one of the suitcases.
Onboard the outbound Cathay Pacific Stratos750, in a private compartment, the young couple reclined in overstuffed sleeper seats. Eyes closed, shortly after take-off, Simoon's thoughts returned to his thesis. Troubled by his father's disappearance, the dissertation had felt like a biopsy... as if a piece of his gray matter had been dissected and splayed for his mentors to probe. He would have offered up his entire cortex for deeper cuts had they asked but, compassionately, they hadn't. The decision to accept his work was made relatively quickly, signaled by a subtle nod from the department head. The questions abruptly stopped and the panelists thanked him for an excellent presentation, telling him he was free to go. Their impersonal tone left him with the impression that the data he had compiled so painstakingly, scribed in a crystalline matrix according to university guidelines, would stand upright in their archives, unviewed, until the ultimate heat death of the solar system. So be it. He was glad to be free of it.
A holographic Asian female appeared, clad in the pale blue Cathay Pacific uniform, a cabin attendant with a blond Dutch boy haircut and an impish smile, asking for his order.
"The shrimp salad," he answered, barely lifting his eyelids.
"And to drink?" she asked, her imagery set at too high a resolution to be convincing.
"Ginger beer."
"Maybe you should have a real beer," said Sealy. "It’s going to be a long flight; it might relax you."
"I'm okay," he said.
Interpreting his comment as an affirmation, the hologram uttered a benign remark and vanished. Simoon leaned forward, twiddling the view field in front of them, moving the in-flight readouts to the sidebar, flicking through the entertainment guides, finally choosing classical music. Haydn's Serenade began sweetly, a piece they both liked. He sat back, eyes closed and the music played softly until an overhead panel began chirping, interrupting the tranquility, slowly descending with their food and drink.
With lunch finished, the table retreated to the ceiling and Sealy turned on her side, settling her head on Simoon's shoulder, her hands embracing his arm. Daydreaming of their first meeting on the Oxford campus in the fall of 2199: she had recognized him from the opposite side of the green - tall and handsome, with a squarish jaw smiling at her. "A fine specimen," her girlfriends had said.
Sealy had seen Simoon on other occasions, at social soirèes in New Hong Kong. Aware of the Jintao esteem, she had promised herself not to be overly impressed but, as chemistry would have it, he spoke to her and she found him irresistible. He had a sophistication about him, more mature than his age, a rare combination... wealth and humility.
Over the course of their second year, they spent most of their free time together. Simoon shared Sealy's interest in free market economies and was always a willing listener when she talked about the historical facts underlying major social change. Sealy, on the other hand, found his engineering studies terminally boring. She knew she should show more interest, but... early on she had confessed, "I don't want to know how things work; it's enough that I know people who can fix them when they break. I can't help it; I'm drawn to different dynamics... the kind that shape society." He understood her point of view and it made him laugh... in private, never to her face.
She felt safe with him. He was always a gentleman yet he was no pushover. Wherever they went, he had the ability to strike up an interesting conversation with whoever they met. She recalled one Sunday afternoon inside the King's Arms, a pub on Holywell Street, boasting the highest IQ per square foot of any bar in the world. A large group of students, most of them Brits, had crowded around; the subject du jour: the Chinese infiltration of Oxford. Simoon loudly broadcast his opinion that infiltration was a contradiction of fact. England, after all, had always been a Chinese colony. The mood instantly chilled and the room went silent.
A tall English fellow with nasal intonation, dismissively corrected Simoon, saying it was quite the other way round: Hong Kong had been a British colony for over a hundred and fifty years. The Brits in the crowd raised their mugs and cheered, "Here, here!"
Embarrassed for Simoon, Sealy knew full well, the Brits had it right.
The clamor faded and Simoon said nonchalantly, "What you say is true. Old Hong Kong was a British colony, for a while anyway: a purely strategic concession resulting in the conversion of that mountainous coastline into a serviceable port... at the England's expense. But that's beside the point. DNA mapping clearly indicates the early settlers of the British Isles originally migrated from China some thirty thousand years ago. So," stressed Simoon, "you Brits are our offspring!"
This should be interesting, mused Sealy.
The crowd was in an uproar and Simoon had to shout above the din to be heard. "Trust me. I have proof!"
"What proof", said several voices at once.
"Okay, listen. I've seen this first hand. Englishmen and Chinamen are alike. Tell either one of them a joke at dinner and they break out laughing at breakfast the next morning. It's in our genes."
The crowd stood silent for a moment, searching for direction, breaking at last from their introspection in raucous laughter.
"What were you thinking about?" Simoon's voice brought Sealy back to the aircraft.
"The King's Arms," she said with a smile and a little yawn.
As Sealy dozed off again, Simoon continued sipping his ginger beer, trying not to think about his father and what he might have happened, turning his thoughts to English pubs. His last week in New Hong Kong, just before leaving for Oxford, the project team he was assigned to had held a farewell party in his honor. The group filed into their favorite public house, the Seas of Fortune, a pub owned by a trading company of the same name, believed to be owned, through a tangled trail of shell companies, by either the Duke of Windsor himself or one of his illegitimate offspring. Having persevered in the same location since its founding in the late 1800's, the Seas of Fortune had weathered several natural disasters including the tsunami that had inundated old Hong Kong, remaining open during the economic maelstroms that ensued as the city rebuilt itself and reemerged as New Hong Kong. Dimly lit, the dark wood paneling and leaded glass windows harkened to the days of clipper ships and tea trade, its bar tops and tables layered with carved hieroglyphs, testimony to centuries of unrelenting revelry.
Another pitcher of Guinness came down with a wet thud on the scarred wooden table and the group's section chief, Gregory McGowen, stood and insisted on yet another toast to the young Jintao. ”Come on lads," sweeping them with a gleaming eye, "and I mean all of you. Fill yer glasses. We may not see this young flath again for many a year." Raising his glass above Simoon's head, McGowen boldly proclaimed, "To your health and may the wind always be at your back."
McGowen was a deep river of knowledge held in high regard by the company, a tall Scotsman with reddish hair and ruddy skin and hands the size of catcher's mitts, looking more like a prize fighter than an engineer. In truth, he had boxed for his regiment during his days in the RAF, before toughing his way through an engineering degree at Cambridge. For three decades he had worked at Jintao, validating their faith in him many times over, through unwavering loyalty and strength of character, completing even the most difficult assignments with regimental finesse.
Simoon sat next to the big Scot who, after his toast, was quietly staring at his half glass of ale. "The wife and I had cats ya know," said McGowen softly. "She's gone but I've got em still."
Welcoming the rare invitation to communicate on a personal level, yet carefully avoiding the subject of Mrs. McGowen's demise, Simoon asked, "What kind are they?"
Staring at his glass as if entranced, McGowen replied, "Sphynx they are - hairless ones, ya know. Nothin' in the world as soft as the skin of a Sphynx." His large forefinger lightly circled the rim of his glass. "It's like they're made of air."
Simoon studied McGowen's gentleness, evidence of the big man's comfort with his masculinity, laced with a certain sadness. Daring to venture into tender territory, Simoon added, "We were all very sorry to hear of your wife's passing."
"Aye. It's been three year, but it seems like yesterday."
Perking up, McGowen took a long slow sip of dark beer and changed the subject. "Your father's the best man I've ever worked for... a true leader he is. Big shoes lad, mighty big shoes. You're next in line and when you're back from university, no doubt he'll be givin' you a project of yer own. Anythin' you need then, you just ask me." McGowen smiled, "Who knows, someday I might be workin' for you."
The Stratos750 whistled across a black sky, Sealy's head still resting on Simoon's shoulder. She dreamed back to one sunny Saturday afternoon. Sitting on a blanket under a willow tree they watched sunlit boats cruise up and down the Themes. Simoon opened a picnic basket full of treats.
"What a surprise," she said, looking at the cheese and pate, preserves, French bread and wine.
Simoon prepared to uncork the wine, unclipping two glasses from the lid of the basket. “You might also find something interesting in that tree," said Simoon, eyeing a nearby willow.
“What? Really? Where?”
“You'll just have to look around.”
She stood up and giggled. “And just how do you know this, mister, mister.”
“A little bird told me.”
On the other side of the tree was a crevice where the tree had grown around the remnants of a cut branch. Looking inside she saw a little box wrapped in red paper. Bringing it to the blanket she sat for a moment, smiling at Simoon.
“Go ahead. Open it,” he said.
Inside she found a two finger ring set of diamonds and rubies. "It's beautiful."
“You know how much I care for you. So, shall we? Will you be my bànlu.” asked Simoon.
Gingerly, she put on the rings, surprised at how well they fit her second and third fingers. Holding up her hand for Simoon to see, she replied, “You and me. Yes. Definitely yes. How long shall we set the renewal for?"
"I was thinking three year intervals with automatic rollover."
"Perfect."
Indeed. Simoon was the perfect match: well mannered, brave, considerate, intelligent... a reflection of his father's excellent character... raised with traditional Chinese values.
Simoon was nudging her. “Almost there,” he said, pointing to the window.
Her eyes opened to the tailored cabin. Looking beyond the gleaming fuselage, bits of coastline flickering in the whiteout of cloud cover, intuitively the fragments joined in her mind, forming the familiar contours of the Gulf of Tonkin and the Leizhou Peninsula.
A mild vibration surged through the aircraft as it slowed to sub-sonic.
CHAPTER THREE
New Hong Kong
The great South Point cluster stood defiantly on the shore of Deep Water Bay, its massive support struts buried twenty meters into bedrock. Designed to withstand any insult that nature could hurl at it, the great monument towered three hundred meters above the inland communities, its far-reaching shadow casting a reminder of what privilege could buy. Tier upon tier of elite dwellings were suspended there, interleaved with greenscape terraces and public service levels. More than a housing complex, it was a destination - home to the most distinguished citizens: bankers, dignitaries, media personalities and industry moguls. The Jintao penthouse occupied a prime position in the uppermost level with an unobstructed view of sky and sea.
The young couple arrived at midday. Ning greeted them at the door and led them to the great front room, returning moments later with tea and biscuits. It was Sealy's first time in the penthouse. She sipped her tea, looking around cautiously at the priceless paintings and rare statuary, a tasteful mix of antique and modern furniture, interior walls sheathed in raw silk, marble floors partially hidden by large oriental rugs.
While Ning proceeded to tell them about her latest conversations with Lieutenant Zhao, Sealy labored to maintain her composure. It wasn't the unexplained disappearance that gripped her, although that was part of it; it was the height. She felt as if the room was swaying, as if at any moment the walls might vanish, leaving her vulnerably exposed on this summit. Outside, the sky loomed, pale as a gull's eye while the sea sparkled like an enormous gray fish. She imagined the floor might tip at any moment and she might irretrievably slip into the dark depths of the sea. Holding the warm cup in both hands, determined not to give voice to her fears, she pressed her back deeper into the sofa, its plyfoam cushions slowly re-contouring and cradling her.
Ning told them, even after the leads dwindled to an improbable few, the lieutenant had continued to give her regular updates. Every lead had been diligently pursued but the investigation had reached a standstill. There were no new leads to pursue, no ransom demand, no suicide note, no trace. Master Jintao had disappeared without explanation.
Simoon had succeeded in holding back his pain, but now, sitting there in the penthouse, with his father still missing, the wound cried out. It felt as if a piece of him had been torn away. On top of this was his obligation to the Jintao Corporation. What would be expected of him? Simoon hadn't planned to be involved for many years but now he would need to participate. He tried to focus on what Ning was saying, but felt detached, listening with his eyes as she spoke of the investigation. As he watched, her unhurried delivery seemed superficial, her restraint taunted him. Was she concealing something? He couldn't be sure... fatigue was setting in.
Having reached the end of her report, Ning led the young couple through the penthouse. Like two weary pups, they followed her into the master's suite where she pointed out several embedded features that Simoon was already aware of. With reverence, in the dressing room she commanded the mirrored wall to rise, revealing the garment bays. "These are your father's Angstrom suits." Then, turning toward the door, she murmured something that sounded like, "No need where he lives now."
"Why is she showing us his suits?" Sealy asked.
Simoon was suddenly awake. "Wait, did you say my father won't need these clothes where he lives now. Is that what you said?"
"The master has always been very healthy," she said with a coy smile. "There is no evidence of his demise, therefore we must assume he is still alive. And, if he is alive, he must be somewhere. Don't you think?"
"I'm sure you miss him," said Simoon, earnestly. "You want to believe that he's somewhere, that he's alive and that he'll return. So do I, but there's no evidence to support that theory. Unless there things you know that you haven't told us."
"I haven't told you everything I know," said Ning, lowering her head in deep reflection. "That would take a very long time indeed. But relating to your father, he is a great man, a great teacher and I am sure he will return when he's ready."
Simoon was puzzled. Ning had always been logical and courteous, but today she seemed irrational; her attitude approached disrespect. Almost two weeks had elapsed without any contact and yet she was convinced that the senior Jintao was still alive and would return. Fending off fatigue, he pressed on. "Do you know where my father is?"
She hesitated, as if selecting her answer from a range of choices. "No."
"Then how can you be certain he will return?"
She paused again, making up her mind before answering. "Because he has no clothes."
"What? What are you saying?"
"Formal and informal, all of his clothes are accounted for."
"I don't understand. You're saying he left without his clothes?" Simoon stared at the suits.
Sealy ran her fingers across the fine Angstrom cloth.
Simoon stared hard-eyed at Ning. "You must be mistaken. Please, have another look."
Day became evening and the young couple combed through master Jintao's personal effects, ample evidence of his fastidious lifestyle, but nothing to suggest where he might have gone. Ning completed another inventory of the master's clothing and was resolute - all of the master's garments were accounted for.
A restless night ensued. Sealy dreamt of the Oxfordshire residence they had left behind, a hand built relic of the nineteenth century, disparaged by the voices of its own creaking floorboards, but a place where she had felt safe. Simoon dreamt of his father in fleeting images, always just beyond reach. It was as if no matter how many steps he took, the distance between them remained the same - as if trying made no difference at all. They awoke early the next morning as though they had not slept at all.
"I don't think I can stay here," said Sealy. "The height is making me nauseous."
"You want us to find another place to stay? I suppose we could move," said Simoon, onerously. "Give it a few days. You might adjust."
"I hope so. I know you've got a lot on your mind. I'll try."
Ning was preparing breakfast when Simoon entered the kitchen, her "master with no clothes" comment still ringing in his ears. He was sure she wouldn't say such a thing just to be crass, but the image of his supercentenarian father out in the world naked was offensive. Nevertheless, she had made a point: with no evidence of foul play or misadventure, it was conceivable that his father would return when he felt like it. Simple deductions were often more likely to be true than complex ones. The ultimate question was where had he gone? Still somewhat irritated, Simoon confronted her. "I don't understand. What are you not telling us about father's disappearance?"
Ning continued to set out plates and cups. Tilting her head without looking up, she said, "Your father's actions are not separate from who he is. He is a strategist, a wise man, an explorer."
Half of him listened to her words, as she continued in her circuitous manner, advising him to expect the unexpected; the other half of him concentrated on her delivery. Like a headlight brushing across a dark room, he noticed something. Ning's humble attentiveness that he remembered from childhood was gone, replaced by a puckish and somewhat aloof attitude. Maybe she's overstressed. Being a gentleman, he pulled back from his interrogation, after all she was just the housekeeper. What could she know?
Simoon learned very little during his first forty eight hours in the penthouse. With a clear head, on the morning of his third day, he stepped into the lobby of building one of the Jintao Corporation.
Pausing near a larger than life palladium statue of an ancestor, Qui Juang Jintao, Simoon studied the face. He'd been told of similarities in their appearances but the metallic finish made it difficult to judge. Seeing his ancestor as an inanimate metal object, left him insensate. Here stood Qui Juang Jintao, founder of the dynasty, turned into a marketing tool, a contrivance symbolizing the company’s proficiency at mining precious metals. This was a travesty. Qui Juang had created the family business out of nothing at all. He had lifted himself out of the social morass known as the Peoples Republic and built an empire. Following in his footsteps, the family had become an indispensable part of the Sino Industrial Complex, beginning with public construction projects and graduating to factories of their own. They produced heavy equipment and, as the Chinese space program ventured beyond Earth, the Jintao Corporation became one of its prime contractors, building zero-G mining equipment, cargo vessels and remote power stations.
Turning to the elevators, Simoon's path was blocked by two executive secretaries, both dressed in black variations on the same understated theme. Simultaneously, they inclined their heads toward him. It was only a degree or two, but he caught it - a subtle but unmistakable kowtow. Simoon had to remind himself to stand and accept this ancient gesture, a custom of groveling that should have been laid to rest with the last emperor.
“I am Dee Dee Cheu, and this is Shu Song Liu. It is our privilege to meet you. How may we provide you with excellent service today?"
“Nothing at the moment,” he said. “Shieh shieh." Bypassing them, he made his way across the lobby, aware of the many eyes upon him. He was there to pursue his own agenda, but the day was also about ceremony, to demonstrate to all that a Jintao was still on board. The secretaries followed him into the elevator, parking themselves on either side. Exiting on the eighteenth floor, the secretaries trailed quickly behind him, their shoes clacking on the polished marble floor. Like a synchronized unit, they entered the executive conference room: familiar gray felt walls, rosewood floor, four gold and glass display cases, displaying national awards and gifts from foreign governments. A massive rainbow obsidian table stood at the center, around which sat nine senior executives, observing them as they traversed the room.
Avoiding eye contact, Simoon made his way to the open seat next to Dr. Hao, the presiding company president. A glimpse of Hao refreshed his memory: salt and pepper hair combed back, a concentration of gray at the temples, Angstrom suit tailored to perfection. Seven years earlier Hao had been given the role of president when master Jintao gave up day-to-day management. He had proved to be a perfect choice. Hao's composure was legend, an enigmatic iron wall and, under the impenetrable façade: a tough negotiator and a remarkably intelligent strategist.
Hao introduced Simoon as heir to the Jintao Corporation, and its future CEO, then introduced the other executives one by one, returning at last to the young Jintao. “I speak for all of us when I say we feel the absence of your father deeply and wish we could have greeted you under more fortunate circumstances. Even so, it is our pleasure to have you here with us today.”
Taking his cue, Simoon slid his chair back and stood, resting his fingertips on the table. He began his address in a calm, steady voice, his best approximation of corporate speak. “Thank you Dr. Hao. Thank you all. I'm honored to be in your presence. Your excellent service is what makes the Jintao Corporation a superlative example to the rest of the world. Our customers, and even our competitors are inspired by the leadership and expertise you demonstrate. Every one of our employees is grateful for your wisdom and professionalism and the company owes you a debt of gratitude. We have a great legacy and we are on a great journey together. My desire is to learn all there is to know about our company and to eventually participate in its management. However, at this time stability is most important. I'm sure agree. It goes without saying that Dr. Hao will continue as both President and Chief Executive for the foreseeable future.”
One by one the executives stood and reintroduced themselves, delivering a summary of advances within their unique areas of expertise. Simoon watched the parade, each coming from a different discipline, yet all of them regimented in their conformal suits, delivering same length presentations in the standard corporate parlance. A part of him felt sorry for them.
The meeting adjourned and, as executives filed out, Dr. Hao spoke in hushed tones, two fingers pressed against the tables edge, “Your father’s office is yours to use for as long as you like. Come see me when you've settled in. I must excuse myself. I have another meeting.”
After the last executive left, Simoon turned to the secretaries seated behind him. “Bring a pot of tea with two cups and find Gregory McGowen. I'll be here.” The women scurried away, their lives once again filled with purpose.
Alone in the conference room, Simoon imagined himself taking the helm, becoming CEO, taking on the crushing weight of responsibility that office would impose. It seemed like an impossibility... a stress level he would never wish to aspire to. Yet he was confident that in time he could adapt; he could master the role and become one of them. But, where's the joy in that? On the other hand, it could be fun. Were he steering the ship, there would be changes. He would transfrom the company into a center for creativity, an oasis for intellectuals; he would encourage self expression and relax the executive dress code...
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a large man striding through the doors of the conference room: gray space boots, gray slacks and a matching gray flight vest over a dark blue turtleneck. McGowen. Clearly, the big Scot had no aspirations of becoming an executive. He'd come a long way from his little highland town of Aberlour and was enjoying his station in life. And why not. Isn't enjoyment what life should be about?
“Hello Gregory."
“There ye be laddie.” said McGowen, raising a grin as he pulled up next to the boardroom table. “Good to see ya.”
The aroma of toasted oats and hay wafted up as the young Jintao cradled a steaming cup in the palms of his hands. “Relax, have a seat. Tea?“
A secretary began to fill the second cup.
“Aye. Don’t mind if I do. It's colder than a brass monkey's nuts outside.”
Taking the chair to Simoon’s left, McGowen lifted his cup. “It’s been awhile. A lot's happened," he said, eyeing the secretaries over the rim of his cup as he took his first sip.
Simoon turned to the secretaries. “Leave us, please.” He watched them exit, then turned back to McGowen, “I spent the morning playing heir apparent... apparently I did alright. Now I want to get on with something more important. I want to know about my father’s disappearance... want to know everything. I can't believe no one's figured out what happened. You've got the inside track on how to get things done around here. Bring me up to speed. What do you think happened?”
McGowen took another sip of hot tea, relaxing into his chair. “Mighty strange wasn't it? Can’t help thinkin’ one day I’ll turn a corner and he’ll be here... just like before. But... well... I'm sure you got the headlines from the other side of the pond. The search was massive indeed. There were all kinds of rumors and theories, and they dogged every one of them... turned up nothin'. You’d do well to get the details from our security folks.”
Simoon agreed that in time he'd talk to them, but first he wanted to retrace the events that led to that ill-fated day, to try and see the events from his father's point of view, to maybe look where others hadn't.
"There was somethin’," said McGowen. "Somethin' that happened awhile back. I thought it was curious.”
“What are you referring to?”
“I can’t be sure there's a connection, mind you, but it was an odd thing. Two years ago there was an anomaly at one of the orbitin’ power plants. We sent a survey crew up to investigate and they reported a system overload... triggered by solar flares, they said. Then your father did somethin' unusual. He sent a couple of our top engineers up there to have a look-see. They spent two days in zero-G, doin’ tests for him. After they were done, he wrote an official memo... concluded that solar flares were responsible for overloading the transmission coils. In essence, he concurred with the first survey crew. Case closed, end of story. Right?”
“Go on.”
McGowen leaned forward, speaking in a quieter tone. “If you look at the data logs, you'll see he continued to access the engineering data. He worked on it for months from his private lab."
"He had a private lab?"
"To be sure. He liked to tinker."
"And why do you think it was unusual for him to study the data?"
"Officially, he never posted anything more about it.” McGowen sat back in his chair. “Now that in itself isn't unusual around here; everythin's on a ‘need-to-know’ basis and it goes without sayin' yer father wasn't obliged to tell anyone what he was doin'. But somethin' had his attention. Know what I mean?” He paused for another sip of tea.
“I think I follow.” said Simoon, a quizzical knit on his brow. “I’d like to look at his private lab and those files.”
“When I heard you were comin’, I figured you might want to get into this. You can see the files whenever you like and I may have found a rabbit hole as well.”
“A what?”
“Aye, a rabbit hole, that's what our IT boys call it. It's a security feature, sort of a data tunnel. I’m pretty sure your father socked away more files than what we've found. You can have a look whenever you like.”
“Now... now is always the best time,” said Simoon, setting down his cup. “When you've finished your tea.”
CHAPTER FOUR
McGowen emptied his cup in a single gulp and stood up. A few minutes later his footsteps were echoing down a glassy black corridor on the tenth floor. While they walked, he put in, “Your father was very buttoned down. No one had access to his files. He encrypted everythin'. Took our code-jockeys quite awhile to hack through, but after pissin' and moanin' they finally got in..." He looked up as they passed a surveillance camera and changed his tone to a whisper. "I suspect we've not seen everythin'.”
Arriving at the door of his father's lab, a synthesized female voice declared, “Gregory McGowen, Simoon Jintao; you are approved for entry.” The voice could have belonged to any cultured Mandarin lady, although some of its intonations were unmistakably those of master Jintao, the program's tutor.
As they entered, a dim ambient glow lit the windowless lab. Racks of instruments and supplies stood against the walls, mobile test instruments and a large workbench occupying the center.
Stepping up to the black topped, anti-static bench, McGowen said, “I should tell you up front, we found nothin’ in the files to explain his disappearance. But, like I said, I don't think we've seen everything. View field - ON.” A faint haze appeared from the bench top to the ceiling. He tapped the field with the palm of his hand and dozens of folders appeared. “These are the files they decrypted: briefs on power transfer technology, treaty agreements, personal notes on various projects... interestin’, but nothin’ to explain what happened.” He poked an icon at the edge of the field. A graphical emblem enlarged, an inverted pyramid, the Jintao corporate logo. “Looks like the standard company emblem doesn’t it? But move your head side to side. See? It’s not just two dimensional. It’s got depth. It’s a tetrahedron. I think it might be an access point, maybe a door to an offsite database. The IT boys played with it, but never got past. Maybe you’ll have better luck."
”It's familiar. I had a puzzle like this when I was a child.”
“Makes sense.” said McGowen, stepping to the side. He began to root through a storage bin on one of the shelves.
Simoon's hand extended into the view field, his fingers stretching out to press all three sides of the emblem. His other hand reached in to press the apex at the same time. The shape suddenly rotated end over end, presenting its hidden side. Behind the pyramid was a rectangular recess, a line of neon blue surrounding it. Dozens of small blue Kanji characters simultaneously appeared, floating in grid formation next to the icon, jiggling slightly as if inviting him to choose. Simoon considered the number of blank spaces in the rectangle. From the available characters, he selected one after another, dropping them onto the recess, constructing three words: Knowledge, Courage, Honor – his father’s personal motto. The recess closed and a female voice spoke again, “Shieh shieh. Bio ID, please.”
“Gregory. It's asking for bio-ID. I need something of my father's.”
“I was expectin' that. This view field is an older model... doesn't have autosensin'.” McGowen handed over a thin plastic card he had retrieved from the bin. “Try this, it might work.”
Simoon held the card up to catch light from the view field. “A bio-transmitter, I haven’t seen one of these for ages. But I don't think it will work with my bioID.