To Embers We Return — Chapter 22
***
Bian Jin had intended to ask Shen Ni whether Ni’s Heart might have affected her sense of touch. Why else would she feel no pain after spilling near-boiling cider on herself?
But then she thought about how strangely sensitive her skin seemed to become whenever she so much as brushed up against Shen Ni. If she tried to speak to Shen Ni, there was a chance that such physical contact might occur again, however inadvertently.
She’d managed only with great difficulty to conceal her reactions those last two times. Shen Ni likely hadn’t realised that anything was amiss, but there was absolutely no guarantee that Bian Jin would be able to repeat the feat next time. Shen Ni was far too clever; she was bound to notice even the tiniest crack in Bian Jin’s facade.
In any case, they’d already agreed on a full-body examination once every seven days. Shen Ni would be bound to discover what had happened then.
Shen Ni, meanwhile, was experiencing a rare bout of restlessness.
Now that the Supreme Bureau of Research and Innovation had finally opened its doors to her, she had no excuse left for her continued idleness, so she flung herself back into her work on the city’s defensive fortifications. For the next few days, she and Bian Jin saw practically nothing of each other.
Shen Ni’s Messenger Pigeon inbox pinged relentlessly with notifications. Work-related correspondence and official documents from the imperial court came flooding in, on top of updates from her group chats with friends, fellow Shuangji Hall disciples, and members of the various machinists’ associations she belonged to. Her digital watch buzzed so frequently that it was beginning to make her wrist ache.
Bian Jin was the one person who never got in touch with her. Her grey default avatar was pushed further and further down Shen Ni’s list of recent contacts as new messages came in. Grumpily, Shen Ni pinned Bian Jin’s profile to the top of her contact list, then plucked the watch from her wrist and put it aside.
In the midst of these dull yet busy days, Shen Ni sent a spybird winging towards the Xuanzhou Empire to gather some live images of what was going on there. The spybird was capable of turning invisible, as well as evading the most cutting-edge surveillance technology available. The thought of Qin Wushang flailing helplessly as the most hardened bounty-hunters in the trade came swarming across her borders was the only thing capable of bringing her any joy now.
Shen Ni had been bringing her engineer’s toolkit with her to the Directorate over the last few days. It was about the size of the average suitcase and weighed only slightly more, which made it easy for her to carry about wherever she went. During her occasional breaks from work, she’d been testing and adjusting the prosthetic leg she’d promised to craft for Zeng Qingluo. Having placed the finishing touches on it, she was about to call Zeng Qingluo into her office to test it out when she heard a knock at her door.
‘Come in.’
It was Zeng Qingluo, who had just finished reconstructing Liu Ji’s online footprint. She’d only taken a step across the threshold when she saw that Diwu Que was already there, drinking tea on Shen Ni’s sofa. Beside her sat her immediate superior He Lanzhuo, the Military Commissioner of Muzhou.
‘Eh?’ said Zeng Qingluo, pausing mid-step.
The atmosphere in the room was rather grave, she felt. And the appearance of the Military Commissioner gave one the odd feeling of having stumbled into the wrong pocket of space and time. Everyone else in the room was dressed in wide-sleeved, TangPro-style robes, but the Military Commissioner was clad in a smart Western-style suit. Her long, smooth black hair hung loose over her shoulders, and a custom-made visor hid her eyes completely.
The well-fitted suit He Lanzhuo was wearing did not belong to any of TangPro’s traditions. It was the product of — or rather, would be the product of — a civilisation that lay on another continent to the west of TangPro, as detailed in the historical texts Li Ruoyuan’s ancestor had found in the mysterious capsule from the future.
That Western culture had its own followers within TangPro society, but He Lanzhuo had stated that she did not consider herself one of its adherents. It was just that she found the design of the Western suit more practical for her purposes compared to the flowing, elaborate robes generally worn within TangPro. Whatever she was doing, whoever she was killing — it gave her that much more freedom of movement.
Zeng Qingluo hovered uncertainly on the threshold with her head round the door. She glanced first at Diwu Que, then at He Lanzhuo.
‘It’s all right, you can come in,’ said Shen Ni. She was leaning back in her chair, putting some drops into her eyes. ‘They know all about what happened at the florist’s.’
Before Zeng Qingluo could take another step forward, Diwu Que came up to her and gathered her into a hearty embrace. ‘There’s no need to be shy with me, little Qingluo! Come, give me a hug. Mm, that’s so nice, our little Qingluo is as cuddly as ever today.’
Zeng Qingluo wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but when Diwu Que threw her arms around her, she thought she saw He Lanzhuo — who’d been looking through a sheaf of documents — turn slightly in their direction. Her eyes were completely hidden, but Zeng Qingluo could feel her gaze. It seemed to pierce straight past He Lanzhuo’s visor and right through Zeng Qingluo’s skin and bones, penetrating into the depths of her heart. An involuntary chill crept over her.
‘Please don’t do that,’ said Zeng Qingluo, as she freed herself from Diwu Que’s embrace. Red-faced, she went up to Shen Ni and said quite formally, ‘Director-General, I’ve finished reconstructing Liu Ji’s online footprint. The only unusual thing is that it tells us he once visited Shanzhou. He managed rather cleverly to keep that from showing up in his digital identity markers, so without the reconstruction, we might never have found it out.’
Zeng Qingluo’s pretty, big eyes were bloodshot, and there were heavy shadows under them. In order to complete the reconstruction as soon as possible, she’d taken to rising early and going to bed only in the small hours of the morning, devoting every spare moment she had to the task. She might only be a B-tier warrior, but she was very careful and observant, which made her well-suited for investigative work.
Zeng Qingluo had offended a member of the nobility when she first arrived in Chang’an, putting an end to her ambitions of a political career. It was then that she’d begun working for Shen Ni. For her part, Shen Ni, had always been generous towards Zeng Qingluo. She entrusted her with the most important of tasks, and had never once doubted her judgment.
Shuangji Hall had been one of the four greatest martial arts sects in the empire, and its inner disciples alone numbered in the thousands. Many of them had gravitated to Chang’an, so there was no shortage of sect-siblings — including those more skilled and competent than Zeng Qingluo — whose services Shen Ni could have called upon. Zeng Qingluo had never asked why, out of all their sect-siblings, Shen Ni should have chosen someone as unremarkable as herself.
At the name ‘Shanzhou’, Shen Ni placed a finger silently against her chin. She thought of the two things she’d tasked her agent in the north to look into: the whereabouts of Bian Jin’s bone whip, and whether Liu Ji had ever visited the northern territories. Her agent had replied only with the bone whip’s location, confirming that it had last been seen in the Xuanzhou Empire. But logically, that should have been much harder to track down than Liu Ji’s movements. Why did it seem as if her agent had deliberately chosen to withhold information about Liu Ji?
As Shen Ni’s mind whirred with questions, Diwu Que and He Lanzhuo had also scented something peculiar behind the mention of Shanzhou.
Shanzhou was TangPro’s northernmost province. It shared a border with the Xuanzhou Empire, with which it was in constant conflict. Not only was Shanzhou inextricably bound up with the Xuanzhou Empire, it was also held up as one of the proofs of Bian Jin’s ‘treason’. Three years ago, when Bian Jin had disappeared, the last digital identity marker she’d left behind had been in Shanzhou. Liu Ji’s presence in the same province was… interesting, to say the least.
Liu Ji’s background had been thoroughly gone into. He was a perfectly ordinary merchant who ran a moderately-sized business with his family. He had been known to travel for the purposes of trade, but his and his wife’s extended kin were all spread across either the empire’s heartlands or its southern regions. He’d had no friends or family in Shanzhou, nor any business contacts. And Shanzhou itself was such a dangerous and punishing place that it seemed highly implausible for him to have gone there for any sort of professional purpose. So why had he turned up there, and how had he returned to the capital carrying with him a strain of the Black Box virus that was both easily detectable and readily contained?
Everyone in the room was quiet, and busy with their own thoughts. It was Diwu Que who broke the silence first.
‘Liu Ji might have gone to Shanzhou before the Black Box virus had been fully eradicated from there,’ she said. ‘So he could have become infected without realising it, then brought it back with him to Chang’an unknowingly.’
He Lanzhuo smiled rather trenchantly. ‘If that were the case, he would have triggered Chang’an’s tracking system the moment he set foot in the city, and been obliterated on the spot.’
‘That’s a good point,’ said Diwu Que.
‘According to my investigations,’ said Zeng Qingluo, ‘the last time Liu Ji was recorded entering the city was six months ago. But there’s also a record of him leaving the city fifteen days later. The bizarre thing is, there’s no record of him re-entering Chang’an after that. According to his wife Madam Xu, he returned home from that last journey three months ago. Since then, he’d been running their florist’s shop as usual, with nothing out of the ordinary happening. In other words, he made a trip outside the city nearly six months ago, and disappeared for at least two months. Then somehow, he managed to return home without passing through any of the checkpoints at the city’s gates, and stayed there until his death.’
‘That was a really careful piece of detective work, little Qingluo,’ said Diwu Que admiringly. ‘Chang’an’s defences might not be absolutely impregnable at the moment, but they’re still difficult to circumvent. There are ways and means of getting around the checkpoints, but most people wouldn’t be able to do it.’
He Lanzhuo had been about to say something, but stopped when Diwu Que picked up the thread of the discussion.
Shen Ni’s eyes were still irritated and sore. She shut them, tilted her head back, and stretched out her arms, leaning them on either side of her chair. ‘To be more precise,’ she said, ‘no living person would be able to do it.’
Zeng Qingluo realised immediately what she was talking about. ‘Do you mean to say… Liu Ji might have entered Chang’an through the Forgotten Passage beneath the city?’
The Forgotten Passage was a tunnel as ancient as the capital itself, an escape route that the founding emperor of TangPro had constructed as a last resort for the people of Chang’an. If the capital were ever to be surrounded by hostile forces, they would at least have a way out.
The tunnel had been built some four hundred years ago. At the time, the empire’s digital technology was still in its infancy, so no provision had been made for any enhancements. In the centuries that followed, plans were made to retrofit the tunnel with electronic upgrades, but as the technological war between the different countries on the continent began heating up, fears grew that this would only give an opening to enemy hackers. If they were to take control of the Forgotten Passage, TangPro would lose its last hope of self-preservation.
Because of this, the Forgotten Passage remained almost exactly as it had been when it was first constructed. The only addition was a firewall which shielded it from all forms of surveillance, even Chang’an’s city-wide tracking system.
There was a good reason why the powers that be considered it safe to place the tunnel beyond the reach of the tracking system. It was because the Black Box virus was capable of possessing only living creatures. In times of peace, to prevent prisoners or hostages from using it as an escape route, the Forgotten Passage was regularly purged of all oxygen. No human could pass through it alive.
‘It is possible that this Liu Ji might already have been dead when he entered the city through the Forgotten Passage?’ asked Diwu Que, munching on one of the pastries meant for visitors to the Directorate. ‘That could be how he brought the Black Box virus back into the city without being detected by the tracking system, and he wouldn’t have needed oxygen.’
Shen Ni held up one finger. Her eyes were still closed, and her upturned face did not even twitch. ‘If what you say is true, she said, ‘then first, Liu Ji would have had to know where the hidden entrance to the Forgotten Passage is.’
‘Not even I know that,’ said He Lanzhuo.
Shen Ni held up another finger. ‘Second, this means he was somehow able to live alongside his family for another three months after his death, without any of them discovering that he was already a corpse.’
At Shen Ni’s words, another silence fell over the office.
He Lanzhuo put down the documents she was holding. ‘How are Liu Ji’s family being dealt with?’
‘I suggested to the emperor that his wife and children should be moved temporarily to the buffer zone outside the city and kept under observation,’ said Shen Ni. ‘Once the observation period is up, and depending on whether they’ve been infected themselves, a decision can be made as to whether they should be allowed to return to the city or relocated elsewhere.’
The very mention of this roused Diwu Que’s ire. ‘But just yesterday, Prince Wei and his group of tame ministers petitioned the emperor to execute Liu Ji’s whole household, claiming that this was the best way of eliminating any further risks. And the emperor actually allowed it! How could she—’
He Lanzhuo cut her off. Her voice was still low, but her tone was ice-cold. ‘Diwu Que, how many lives do you think you have, that you would dare question Her Majesty’s wisdom in this way?’
Diwu Que let out an unhappy grunt and snapped her mouth shut.
Shen Ni finally opened her eyes. They felt a little better — she could at least see things clearly now — though they were still rather terrifyingly bloodshot.
The soundproofing in her office was excellent, but it was still no place for discussing the emperor’s possible foibles.
Shen Ni changed the subject. ‘Why are your eyes so red and swollen?’ she asked Diwu Que. ‘Would you like some of my eye-drops?’
Diwu Que glanced covertly at He Lanzhuo. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘I went to sleep very late last night, that’s all.’
Shen Ni thought nothing more of it. She turned to Zeng Qingluo, who was lost in thought, and said, ‘Come here, Qingluo. Give your new leg a try.’
The matter of her new prosthetic had slipped Zeng Qingluo’s mind completely, crowded out by the gravity of what they’d been discussing. The limb was quickly fixed in place, and Zeng Qingluo gave an experimental leap. Her new leg felt both strong and pliable, and running along one side of it was a concealed recess for weapons, which held a shotgun and a pistol. Built into the recess was a long strip of power cells that glowed a deep reddish violet. Zeng Qingluo wasn’t quite sure what this was for at first.
‘Exactly as it appears,’ Shen Ni explained. ‘They’re there to supplement your own power levels. Your new leg is an S-tier prosthetic, so the power cells will augment your jade core, reducing some of the load of operating a higher-level implant.’
At the words ‘S-tier prosthetic’, Zeng Qingluo stared at her in shock, and Diwu Que let out a reflexive curse.
Zeng Qingluo was only a B-tier warrior, so even an A-tier prosthetic would have been difficult enough for her to handle. Like a pony dragging a locomotive, she risked it going off the rails at any moment. Yet her xiaoshijie had crafted her an S-tier prosthetic she could use. She’d never even dreamed that she would possess such a high-level piece of cyberware.
‘But wouldn’t it overload almost instantly?’ asked Zeng Qingluo, shock still written all over her face.
Shen Ni, who’d expected her to ask that very question, winked. ‘I’ve used “it” to stabilise the power cells, so you have nothing to worry about.’
Zeng Qingluo knew immediately what Shen Ni was talking about — galactic chromium. Xiaoshijie was actually willing to use something so precious on me? She felt tears coming into her eyes.
‘In any case,’ Shen Ni concluded, ‘this prosthetic is even more powerful than the one you had before, but there’s absolutely no risk of you losing control over it. It’s completely safe for you to use.’
Zeng Qingluo was nearly beside herself with delight.
Diwu Que’s eyes, meanwhile, were roaming over Zeng Qingluo’s new prosthetic with great curiosity, so much so that she nearly put out a hand to touch it. She knew that Shen Ni was a double S-tier machinist, and had seen Shen Ni work wonders with the most unpromising materials. But for all of Shen Ni’s immense Talent, watching her perform a feat that was known in principle to be impossible still left Diwu Que rather dumbfounded.
‘I’ve never seen anyone control a prosthetic two whole levels higher than their jade core before,’ she said finally. ‘How powerful must that be? Come, little Qingluo, let’s have a contest.’
‘I won’t,’ said Zeng Qingluo. ‘You’re an S-tier warrior — I’m not going to fight you.’
The more adamant her refusal, the more eager Diwu Que became. ‘Come on. Please? I promise I won’t bully you — we can stop before it gets too heated.’
‘Don’t worry, Qingluo,’ said Shen Ni, who was sipping from a cup of fruit juice. She propped her chin up with one hand. ‘Go ahead and take her up on the challenge.’
‘Can I really?’ said Zeng Qingluo doubtfully.
Shen Ni turned to Diwu Que. ‘You’re not allowed to use your arms or legs when you’re fighting her. Anything else is fair game.’
‘Then what can I use?’ Diwu Que demanded.
‘You don’t have many options left,’ He Lanzhuo agreed. ‘Well, there’s your head, but that’s not especially useful.’
This didn’t seem to bother Diwu Que in the least. She only grinned at He Lanzhuo. ‘Not especially useful? Really? You seem to enjoy it very much.’
He Lanzhuo was conspicuously silent.
The implication barely hidden in Diwu Que’s words made Shen Ni wish she could pluck off her own ears. She had no interest in anyone’s private affairs.
Zeng Qingluo hadn’t noticed what Diwu Que had said to He Lanzhuo; all her attention was now focused on her new leg. ‘Then why don’t you try to catch me, Diwu jiejie?’ she said excitedly. ‘I’m not much good at anything else, but I’m fairly confident when it comes to speed. If you can catch me within five miles of here, dinner’s on me tonight!’
Diwu Que assented immediately. ‘Excellent idea! I’m pretty decent when it comes to speed, too.’
Zeng Qingluo pushed open a window and leapt up through it onto the roof, and Diwu Que followed closely behind her. Soon, they were two tiny specks in the distance.
There was a knock on the door, and a junior official came in. ‘Director-General,’ she said to Shen Ni, ‘it’s nearly time for the press conference. An official from the Ministry of Households is here to fetch you.’
‘Coming,’ said Shen Ni. The official nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘This matter of Liu Ji’s is very odd,’ He Lanzhuo told Shen Ni. ‘He couldn’t have done it all by himself; someone must have been directing him from behind the scenes. Whatever the truth, it’s all bound up with the Black Box somehow. The emperor’s notion of eliminating the entire household might well prove to be a good idea. Something of this magnitude can’t be kept secret forever,[1] and word of it is already beginning to spread. Putting a whole family to the sword is doubtless cruel, but at least it removes any risk to the rest of Chang’an.’
Her analysis was so coldly logical that it bordered on inhumane. Shen Ni made no comment on it.
‘The city’s defensive fortifications are the utmost priority,’ He Lanzhuo continued. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need my help with. I will be in Chang’an for the foreseeable future.’
And with that, He Lanzhuo left Shen Ni’s office without waiting for Diwu Que to return.
Shen Ni, meanwhile, went with the official from the Ministry of Household to the Information Services Bureau’s broadcasting tower. She was scheduled to make a live address to the residents of Chang’an. In addition to introducing herself as the new director-general of operations for the construction of the new fortifications, Li Ruoyuan also wanted Shen Ni to give the residents of Chang’an an overview of the project, in particular its more unusual features and the principles underpinning it. This would impress on the people the importance of the work, and why such immense sums were being spent on it. If it really did become necessary to activate the defences, the residents of Chang’an would at least have some idea of what to do and where to go rather than getting in the authorities’ way, allowing the officials in charge to direct their efforts more effectively.
***
It was the lunch hour at Lantai, but Bian Jin found that she had very little appetite. She ate only a few mouthfuls of the meal Auntie Wan had brought her.
She heard from a colleague that there was an exhibition of artifacts from the twelve northern provinces at a nearby museum, and it occurred to her that these might be able to help her recall what had happened in those three missing years. And so Bian Jin made her way there, hoping that the exhibition would jog loose a memory or two.
She’d taken half a turn through the quiet exhibition hall when the digital screen overhead — which had been displaying information about the artifacts on show — suddenly switched to an official press conference.
Bian Jin looked up and, to her surprise, found herself gazing straight at Shen Ni.
Shen Ni was wearing her futou and crimson robes of office, and her phoenix eyes were as alluring as ever. She was poise and self-possession personified as she ran through the details of the fortifications that were being constructed. There was something rather captivating about that.
From behind Bian Jin came the excited murmurs of other museum visitors.
‘Is that Marquess Jing’an? I’d heard that she’s a very beautiful woman. It’s a shame that she keeps such a low profile — she hasn’t made a single public appearance since returning home from her victories in Yanluo. She’s even lovelier than I expected!’
‘Those ministerial robes certainly look very different on a pretty jiejie like her!’
‘I hear she’s already married. What a pity — and at such a young age too!’
‘Oh, there’s no point yearning after her. The match was decreed by the emperor herself, didn’t you hear?’
‘How well her wife must be eating every night? I can’t even imagine!’
Their words echoed in Bian Jin’s ears as she slipped unobtrusively into a corner. Many people in Chang’an might no longer remember who she was, but she had no wish to be recognised just then.
When she looked up, she realised that the screen was right overhead, giving her an unobstructed view of Shen Ni’s beautiful face. Since her corner was otherwise empty, Bian Jin felt no compulsion to look away. She continued gazing at the woman she had not seen in days. The high-definition display projected every single detail of Shen Ni’s features — down to her eyelashes — into Bian Jin’s field of vision.
So that’s what she looks like today.
Bian Jin’s heart throbbed erratically in her chest.
That’s odd, she thought. Reflexively her brows knitted together, and she closed her eyes. Why should just seeing her on a screen be enough to trigger such a strong reaction?
She’d been right to avoid meeting Shen Ni over the last few days. She’d better tell Shen Ni that they should postpone the full-body examination that was supposed take place every seven days.
On the screen, Shen Ni paused suddenly in her clear, fluent explanation of the planned fortifications. She let out a brief, quizzical, ‘Hm?’
Bian Jin looked up again — just in time to see the room explode around Shen Ni. Then, abruptly, the broadcast was cut off.
Exclamations rose all around her.
‘What was that?’
‘There was an explosion at the Information Services Bureau!’
Bian Jin stepped quickly into the museum’s foyer. The screens hanging on the walls showed nothing but static. Then, with a final buzz, they all went black.
The other museum visitors were crowding near the windows and front doors, peering out anxiously.
Bian Jin went immediately over to the nearest window. The museum stood on high ground, so she could see the clouds of thick smoke billowing from the direction of the Information Services Bureau.
‘But what could have triggered the explosion?’ She heard one visitor demand.
‘Have mutant beasts broken into the city?’ gasped another.
There was another series of explosions, this time coming from much closer at hand. The museum rocked on its foundations; shrieks rose from the shaken visitors.
Then a squad of armed guards streamed into the room. Splitting into two groups, they began evacuating the crowd. As the other visitors made their way to safety under the protection of the guards, their captain spotted Bian Jin by the window ledge, about to spring out.
‘What are you doing?’ he called out. ‘That’s dangerous — come back!’
He rushed up to Bian Jin and reached out to take hold of her arm, intending to drag her back to into the room. His fingers brushed against Bian Jin’s sleeve, but the next moment, it was batted aside by what felt like a gust of wind. His hand closed only on empty air.
Bian Jin had evaded him as deftly as a cat in the night. She looked back over her shoulder, and the sharp look on her coolly beautiful face sent a chill straight through the captain’s heart. He hadn’t blinked even once, but her movements were too quick for him even to make out; stopping her was out of the question.
He was still staring at Bian Jin wide-eyed as she leapt out of the window. The next moment, she had already disappeared into the rising clouds of smoke.
Zeng Qingluo and Diwu Que came hurrying up to the Information Services Bureau. Smoke was rolling out of the building, and huge explosions continued to reverberate throughout it. The two of them looked up to see a large number of odd-looking sky lanterns[2] drifting through the air.
Why would anyone be launching sky lanterns in broad daylight? Zeng Qingluo wondered.
‘Qingluo.’
At the sound of her name, Zeng Qingluo turned to see Bian Jin jumping lightly down from a nearby roof. ‘Dashijie!’ she called.
‘Was Shen Ni broadcasting from this building?’ asked Bian Jin.
‘Yes—’
The moment the syllable left Zeng Qingluo’s lips, Bian Jin began striding straight towards the building.
‘Dashijie, wait! It’s too dangerous inside—’
Zeng Qingluo was about to hold Bian Jin back when shouts rose from the bystanders around them. Something was hurtling towards them at high speed from above.
Zeng Qingluo’s heart froze mid-beat at the sheer imminence of the threat. Bian Jin, however, responded instantly to the danger, leaping straight into the air like a cannonball from where she stood.
The object plunging towards them from on high was a large section of wall. Like a chunk of bloody meat falling into the ocean, it drew the attention of the drifting ‘sky lanterns’, which began swarming towards it in a frenzy.
Half-sprawled on top of the rapidly plummeting wall was a solitary figure — Shen Ni. She was bleeding from a cut on her forehead. The force of the explosion had left her unconscious for several moments, and when she came to, she’d found herself in mid-air. All she could see in front of her was the dull horizon — and the mass of ‘sky lanterns’ surging in her direction.
But she could tell that these weren’t actually lanterns — each one was a bomb powerful enough to blow her into smithereens. She froze momentarily as she watched them hurtling towards her. Oh no, she thought.
The words had just surfaced in her mind when she felt a pair of arms encircling themselves tightly around her waist. Then, with a massive boom, the wall burst into pieces, spraying metal shards, electronic components and optical cables — sparks flashing from their ragged ends — in all directions, like some gigantic fireworks show.
Bian Jin clasped Shen Ni in her arms as the shock wave washed over them. The impact sent them crashing down onto the costly expanse of lawn just outside the entrance to the Information Services Bureau, where they tumbled over and over again.
Shen Ni felt as if she had fallen into some huge turbine as the world whirled around and around her. It was only when everything stopped spinning that she realised that she was encircled not by industrial machinery, but by Bian Jin’s arms, wrapped tightly around her.
Other than the cut on her forehead — which had been caused by the first explosion — Shen Ni was completely uninjured. A vivid patch of blood, however, was spreading across Bian Jin’s shoulder.
‘Shi—’
Shen Ni was just about to speak when Bian Jin ducked behind another wall, still carrying Shen Ni in her arms.
Shen Ni had not been held like this by Bian Jin since she came of age, and she felt uncomfortably self-conscious in Bian Jin’s embrace. Just as she was about to wriggle free, however, Bian Jin placed a hand on the back of her head and pressed Shen Ni’s face into her chest.
‘Don’t move.’
On the heels of that forceful command, another explosion resounded nearby, throwing up an even more terrifying shock wave. It came screaming over them from behind, sweeping aside every single thing in its path like a sharp blade. Bystanders were thrown into the air, then flung heavily onto the ground again. An ancient scholar tree was snapped right in half. The street outside the Information Services Bureau was reduced to ruins.
Shen Ni, nestled in Bian Jin’s arms, was completely unharmed.
When she looked up again, she saw that the wall they’d been sheltering behind was no longer there. But Bian Jin, as Shen Ni’s final line of defence, had managed to shield her from all danger.
Bian Jin’s usually neat coiffure had been pulled askew; her long hair fluttered loose in the wind. Her left ear was bloody and torn.
She looked down, trying to repress the warmth and tenderness in her eyes, and asked the woman in her arms, ‘Are you hurt?’
***
Author’s Note:
No matter how hard she tries to deny her feelings, if her baby is ever in danger, all the awkwardness disappears, and she goes straight into protective jiejie (wifey) mode.
***
Footnotes:
- In the original text, 纸包不住火 (pinyin: zi bao buzhu huo), literally ‘fire cannot be wrapped up in paper’. A common saying which means that a secret cannot be kept hidden long-term. [return to text]
- In the original text, 孔明灯 (pinyin: kongming deng), literally ‘Kongming lantern’. A small balloon made of paper, with an opening at the bottom where a flame is suspended. When lit, the flame heats the air inside the lantern, causing it to rise into the air. Their invention is often attributed to the Three Kingdoms military strategist Zhuge Liang (诸葛亮), whose courtesy name is Kongming. Historically, they were used for military purposes, and were subsequently incorporated into festivals. [return to text]
douqi 随笔 