To Embers We Return — Chapter 42
***
After Li Si had left, Shen Ni turned to Bian Jin. ‘She’s not going to let this go, you know.’
‘I did have a momentary loss of consciousness that day,’ Bian Jin admitted. ‘I can’t remember how I left the auction.’
To tell the truth, Shen Ni had been taking note of Bian Jin’s occasionally erratic behaviour for some time. There was that night when the mansion’s surveillance systems had reported a breach by an unidentified object. The next morning, Bian Jin had sat down to breakfast with a cut across her hand. When Shen Ni had asked about it, Bian Jin had simply avoided the question. At the time, they had only been living under the same roof for a short while, and relations between them were decidedly cool, so it was unsurprising that Bian Jin would choose not to confide in her.
Shen Ni had initially hypothesised that Bian Jin’s temporary breaks in consciousness were due to the damage to her memory module. But given what had just happened, she now suspected something much deeper was going on. The sealed-off part of Bian Jin’s memories seemed to be fraught with more complexity than she’d imagined.
Bian Jin watched as Shen Ni sank into deep, troubled thought, her clear young brow wrinkling into a frown that belonged on a much older person. The look on her face was such a contrast with her usual confident, composed demeanour that it made Bian Jin’s heart ache a little. ‘Other than breaking into my memory module by force, are there any other ways of unlocking my memories?’ she asked.
‘That’s … not impossible,’ Shen Ni replied hesitantly. She sounded very unlike her usual self.
‘Shimei, if you’ve thought of something, please tell me.’
Shen Ni threw a quick glance around the room, then led Bian Jin out of the building and into their coach, which was waiting nearby. She’d modified the coach herself, so she was confident that no ordinary hacker would be able to breach its systems. They did not need to fear eavesdroppers.
Once the door was safely shut, Shen Ni began explaining the fundamental principles underpinning memory modules. The earliest models had been used for simple information storage. The memory capacity of the organic human brain was limited, and would moreover decline with age. This was not the case with a memory module. As long as there was sufficient storage space, a user could pack their memory module with as much data as they wanted, ready to be retrieved when needed.
For all these conveniences, however, the memory module also came with risks. It was fundamentally a type of cybernetic implant, which meant it was vulnerable to hacking: the information stored in it could be stolen, or even overwritten without the owner’s permission.
One such high-profile case had occurred more than ten years ago. An official of the sixth rank had had his memory module hacked and the passwords to his personal banking accounts stolen. Some hundred million taels of silver had vanished from them overnight. The odd thing was, rather than reporting the theft to the authorities, the official had chosen to keep quiet. The crime had come to light only after the Lijing Bureau began investigating the hacker and discovered the huge sum of money in her possession. In the process of tracing it back to its source, they’d questioned the official, and confirmed that the money had come from him. Given his relatively junior rank, there was no way he could have come by it honestly. After further enquiries, the Lijing Bureau soon established that he’d acquired those funds through corruption. He had only held his post for three years, yet the scale of the ill-gotten gains he’d been able to amass was nothing short of astronomical.
And so that was how the first corruption case of the Zhenguan era had been unearthed and solved: almost by accident. In the days that followed, many people in TangPro had deactivated their memory modules, choosing to rely on their organic brains instead. They’d done so quietly for the most part, to avoid bringing unnecessary trouble down on their heads. None of them wanted to be accused of having something to hide.
This state of affairs did not last long. The people who had deactivated their memory modules soon turned them on again, despite knowing the risks. They’d grown so accustomed to swiftness and ease of storing information cybernetically that, when they attempted to use their organic brains, they found they could no longer tolerate the painful — even primitive — technique of brute force memorisation. The reams upon reams of documents needed for their jobs, the educational materials for honing their Talents, even the names and faces of extended family members, for those who came from the larger clans — all that was simply too much for them to commit to memory.
For most people in TangPro, their memory modules had already taken the place of their organic memory. These were the type of implant in widest use across the continent, and huge sums of money were routinely spent on keeping them in good repair. This, of course, did not mean that the organic human brain was no longer useful. Memory modules could be hacked, meaning that the information in them could easily be leaked. The organic brain was impervious to such attacks.
Shen Ni did have a memory module installed, but her hyperthymesia meant that everything she saw, heard or otherwise experienced was automatically imprinted on her organic memory, whether she wanted it to be or not. And so, at a time when most people were chasing after memory modules with ever-larger storage capacity and ever-faster read/write speeds, the one she had was a custom model she’d built herself. It did not have a large amount of storage space, because she did not need it, but it did have a nigh-impenetrable firewall.
During her period of youthful self-discovery, Shen Ni had gradually made peace with her condition. If she could not forget the things that made her sad, she’d resolved, then she would remember everything that made her happy, to make up for the pain. Her unique circumstances had given her a deep understanding of memory in all its forms, whether organic or cybernetic.
‘The organic human brain is a marvel of intricate construction,’ she explained, ‘and it connects to the memory module in a thousand complex ways. Your memory module may have been sealed off, but the same memories must still be stored somewhere in your organic brain — it’s impossible for any hacker to erase them. For someone to block off your organic memories, they must have used hypnosis or some form of psychological suggestion.’
Bian Jin understood Shen Ni’s meaning. ‘So what you’re saying is, while part of my memory module has been sealed off, my memories of the last three years should also be stored somewhere in my organic brain.’
‘Exactly,’ said Shen Ni. ‘They must be somewhere in your subconscious. As long as we can force them up to the surface, you’ll be able to remember.’
‘That would require need the services of a psychic.’
Shen Ni nodded. She started to say something, but stopped herself. The average psychic might be able to make an attempt at hypnotising Bian Jin, but breaking through to her subconscious would be no easy task. As an SS-tier warrior, Bian Jin’s mental resistance was extraordinarily strong; not even an SS-tier psychic might be able to overcome her psychological defences. Besides, Talented psychics were notoriously rare — much rarer than machinists or warriors. Out of ten Talented individuals, perhaps only one might be a psychic. And in any case, there were no SS-tier psychics in all of TangPro.
Of course, there was another way to awaken Bian Jin’s subconscious, at least in principle.
The spousal module.
Shen Ni did not say this out loud, of course. But she knew that, even if she did not voice the thought, Bian Jin was far too intelligent not to have worked it out for herself.
She rubbed her dry, rasping throat, which felt as if it might go up in smoke at any moment. The next order of business, she thought, is to find myself some water.
The two of them went back into the building, and Bian Jin handed Shen Ni a cup of water which she’d poured before Madam Zhou accosted her. Shen Ni downed it in a single gulp. Finally, my throat is saved, she thought.
As she put down the cup, she realised that Bian Jin was still standing behind her, looking as if there was something she wanted to say.
‘There’s no need to ask, shijie,’ Shen Ni told her, her expression softening. ‘I’ll make sure the families of your fallen soldiers get the full amount of compensation they’re entitled to.
That had been exactly what Bian Jin wanted to bring up. At the same time, she’d been loath to saddle Shen Ni with the task of picking up the pieces she’d left carelessly scattered in her wake. But Shen Ni had still agreed to do it, and with no question asked at that.
It was as if Shen Ni had looked straight into her heart, piercing cleanly through the mists of her own doubts. In a single graceful swoop, she’d swept all of Bian Jin’s burdens into her own pocket, taken Bian Jin’s place on the path of thorns she trod, and pointed at the broad, smooth, open road that ran alongside it. Walk there, and don’t look back, she was telling Bian Jin.
And Bian Jin, who was used to taking care of everything on her own, suddenly felt as if someone had held up an umbrella over her in the midst of a snowstorm.
***
Li Si was so hungry that she felt sure her stomach had begun digesting her spine. The last time I ate, she recalled, was at that noodle stall.
No, wait, she corrected herself. Dou Xuanji had knocked that bowl of noodles out of her hand before she could begin eating. And she definitely hadn’t had any food after that.
When was the last time she’d eaten then, before the noodle stall? Li Si simply couldn’t remember.
Hunger was making her light-headed. She stepped into the closest eatery she saw, quite heedless as to whether the food was likely to be good or not, then sat down and ordered herself a tableful of the richest dishes on offer.
The food arrived, and Li Si tore eagerly into it. Soon, however, her stomach began to protest, and she paused to let it settle, pressing a hand to it. Her insides were roiling, though she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was because she’d been gorging herself, or because she was still brimming with rage at Shen Ni’s deviousness. Marquess Jing’an and her wife were an artful pair indeed, as full of schemes as a bamboo strainer was full of holes.
The memory of Shen Ni spreading her arms wide open in a show of forthrightness as she purred, ‘You’re welcome to hack into my memory module anytime, general,’ flashed across Li Si mind. A pretty face — but the woman herself was infuriating enough to make one spit blood.
Li Si swore. ‘You think an SS-tier Talent makes you untouchable?’
Just as Shen Ni had guessed, Li Si did have a machinist’s Talent, though it was only a C-tier one. Not that she was destined for anything higher; both of her parents had only had a mediocre level of Talent. This had still be enough to allow her to build herself that trusty Gatling gun and other handy weapons.
In addition to being a C-tier machinist, Li Si had also developed a B-tier Talent as a warrior after she’d come of age. Very few people possessed more than one Talent, and those who did tended to have them at fairly low levels.
Despite only having a C-tier Talent, she was still machinist enough to be tempted by the notion of hacking into someone’s personal cybernetic system. Li Si had, in the past, attempted some high-level hacking, though never successfully. But Shen Ni had made it seem so easy. She’d taken control of Madam Zhou’s cybernetic implants without breaking a sweat: no physical connections had been necessary, and Madam Zhou’s personal firewall might as well not have existed.
Ever since taking a post in the military, Li Si had given up all notion of becoming a hacker. But now she’d seen that troublesome genius Shen Ni in action, the prospect tantalised her once more. After all, she’d grown and learned much in the intervening years. If Shen Ni could do it, she might be able to do it too.
Her stomach felt a little better. Li Si gathered herself and set her sights on a likely target: a man sitting at a nearby table. He was plainly dressed, and did not seem like the kind of person who could afford a sophisticated firewall.
Surreptitiously, Li Si began probing at his cybernetic defences.
‘Eh?’
The man, who had been working his way through a bowl of beef noodles, suddenly felt a strange electrical current pulsing wildly through his implants. He was being hacked!
‘Who is doing that?’ he demanded. ‘I’m not worth hacking! I don’t have any money — I swear, I don’t! Stop! Please stop!’
Clutching at his chest, he stumbled to his feet and bolted for the door, cursing loudly as he did.
I’m not done hacking you! Li Si cried inwardly. Stop! Come back!
She sent out a mental command in the man’s direction: Stop. But to completely no avail: he simply kept on running.
Stop, Li Si tried again and again. By the tenth time she’d repeated the command, the man was already out of sight.
‘Fu—’
Well, that had been completely pointless, thought Li Si. Her stomach was beginning to hurt again.
***
Dou Xuanji slept uneasily.
Her dreams were filled with decapitated heads flying through the air in all directions, each one so hideous that she shuddered to look at them. Every single head was also doing its level best to jam itself onto her neck, in a bid to displace her own head.
In her dream, Dou Xuanji drew her sabre and began slashing wildly about her. Just as she was feeling completely spent from the exertion, a hand tapped her on the shoulder.
Somehow, even though she had not seen the person standing behind her, she knew immediately who it was. She spun around, caught off guard, and an axe tore her throat open.
‘Please don’t blame me…’ came her attacker’s quivering voice. She looked up into a face spattered all over with blood. Her blood.
‘I didn’t want to do it, I just wanted to survive. Don’t blame me, it’s not my fault!’
Dou Xuanji shuddered violently, and woke up.
She was looking up at the sky. There was as yet no sign of dawn on the grey horizon. In the near distance was a massive smokestack, belching endless clouds of black smoke into the air.
When Dou Xuanji looked down, she saw that she was lying on a hard reclining chair in a derelict courtyard. She was back at the Lijing Bureau’s headquarters.
Whoosh.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Several arrows whizzed past her field of vision and buried themselves in the automated archery target at the other end of the courtyard. It was moving rapidly from side to side, and already bristling with arrows.
Fang Pan lowered her bow, dragged the target closer, and began pulling out the arrows one by one.
Dou Xuanji sat up, clutching at her abdomen; it hurt. She gave herself a few moments to steady her breathing, then asked, ‘You haven’t slept at all?’
‘My aim wasn’t good enough,’ said Fang Pan. ‘That’s why that creature was able to dodge my arrows, and that’s why it was able to hurt you. I need to train harder, otherwise I really might get you killed next time.’
Dou Xuanji rubbed her neck. The remembered pain from her old injury seemed to have followed her to the waking world from her dream. ‘It’s not your fault I got hurt,’ she said offhandedly. There were some bottles of extra-strength nutrient beverage next to her chair. She picked one up, gulped it down, and rose to leave.
‘You’re not going to carry on searching for the virus door-to-door, are you?’ asked Fang Pan.
‘Did the director rescind that order?’
‘…No.’
Dou Xuanji said nothing more. She strode out of the courtyard. As her partner, Fang Pan had no choice but to follow.
***
Shen Ni walked up to the front doors of the Supreme Bureau of Research and Innovation. The two guards standing watch, one on either side, crossed their swords together to bar her way. ‘This is a restricted area,’ one of them intoned. ‘No admittance except on official business.’
The day after the attack on the Eastern Market, Shen Ni had managed to get out of attending court by pleading injury. She’d spent the following days reinforcing that particular narrative by staying at home and catching up on all the sleep she’d lost.
Whatever other virtues Shen Ni might or might not have, she did possess a remarkable degree of mental equanimity. Even if the world were tearing itself apart beyond the walls of her mansion, she could still sleep as sweetly as a baby within them. The way Shen Ni saw it, one could only strategise effectively if one was well-rested.
She’d been hoping to stay at home for a few more days, but Li Shan had sent her message after nagging message from the Supreme Bureau of Research and Innovation’s official account, making it sound as though the capital was in danger of collapsing at any moment if Shen Ni refused to answer her summons. And so Shen Ni had had no choice but to drag her ‘ailing and enfeebled’ body to the bureau.
She hadn’t put on her official robes either, and was, if anything, dressed even more plainly than usual. And so the guards had barred her from entry. Without her robes of office and her golden pouch, it seemed many of the capital’s doors were closed to her.
‘You won’t let me in?’ asked Shen Ni. ‘Very well then. It’s no skin off my back. I’m going home to take a nap — that’s a much better use of my time.’
As Shen Ni turned to leave, Li Shan came rushing out of the building, calling for her to come back. She’d caught sight of Shen Ni on the surveillance monitors.
‘This is no time to be rash, Marquess Jing’an,’ she said. ‘We have important matters of state to discuss.’
Shen Ni looked aggrieved. ‘Me? Being rash? Hardly. It was your guards who refused to let me into the building.’
The official responsible for the bureau’s facial recognition system came running up as well, nearly falling over herself in her haste to explain. ‘I should have scanned your lordship’s face into our system long ago, but I was so busy that I forgot. It shall be done at once!’
Li Shan reprimanded her subordinate roundly before sending her away. When she turned back to Shen Ni, she still looked a little awkward, but her tone was much more civil.
‘Things have been extremely busy at the bureau for the last while,’ she said. ‘And fewer and fewer researchers remain at their stations. Many have taken leave to shelter in their homes, or left Chang’an entirely for their hometowns. I hope you will be generous enough to excuse us for any lapse in hospitality, Marquess Jing’an.’
Shen Ni took note of Li Shan’s bloodshot eyes and her unwashed hair. Li Shan had always taken so much pride in her appearance, but now her hair was matted and dishevelled, and her robes of office hung about her in crumpled folds. Since Shen Ni had last seen her, she’d also grown noticeably thinner under the strain.
Shen Ni decided not to argue further. ‘Let’s talk inside,’ she said briskly.
***
Shen Ni had gone to the Supreme Bureau of Research and Innovation for a meeting with Prince Yong, to discuss strategies for countering the Black Box. She would probably not be home until fairly late, Bian Jin thought. This gave Bian Jin the chance to take care of some outstanding business.
She had a secondary account on the dark web, which she used primarily for her most personal affairs. Through it, she’d contacted an S-tier psychic and requested a hypnosis session.
When they’d last spoken about her lost memories, Shen Ni had not brought up the spousal module directly. But Bian Jin knew it was because she’d already suggested it once, then been most curtly rebuffed. And so, quite tactfully, she’d refrained from mentioning it again, waiting until Bian Jin herself was ready to revisit the matter.
Bian Jin wasn’t against the idea. She did want to use the spousal module. Once it was activated, Shen Ni would be able to enter her subconscious, and perhaps retrieve the memories of the last three years from her organic brain.
Her greatest concern was that Shen Ni might come across that outrageous erotic dream in the depths of her mind. What would Shen Ni think of her then, for harbouring prurient fantasies so unbecoming of her position as Shen Ni’s shijie and the senior disciple of Shuangji Hall? Her rejection of Shen Ni’s feelings all those years ago would seem doubly ridiculous.
Not even an S-tier psychic would be able to break through the seal on her memories, Bian Jin knew, but they might be capable of erasing an unwanted dream. It was well worth a try.
Though at the end of the day, it was only her personal pride that was at stake here. That was hardly anything when compared to the necessity of protecting Shen Ni’s reputation and proving her own innocence. If the psychic she’d found could successfully erase that errant dream, that would be ideal. But even if they failed, she would press ahead with the spousal module anyway. She couldn’t let Shen Ni down, not when Shen Ni had risked her own reputation by willingly linking herself to Bian Jin.
The psychic she’d found was based in Chang’an, and they’d named an exorbitant fee: fully half of a Lantai clerk’s annual salary. Shen Ni had told her that the money in their joint account was hers to spend as she pleased, and there was no need to let Shen Ni know beforehand. Given the size of this particular sum, however, Bian Jin was careful to make a note of it. Since the two of them shared the account, Shen Ni was sure to see it. And so under ‘reason for expenditure’, she wrote down ‘new weaponry’ instead of ‘hypnosis’
The psychic had arranged to meet her in a room at Empire House. This surprised Bian Jin somewhat: she’d been expecting a guildhouse or an office, not a space as personal as that.
When she set off for Empire House, Bian Jin was wearing sunglasses and the mask Shen Ni had given her on their wedding day, set to its most opaque shade of black. No one would be able to recognise her, she was sure.
She arrived at the inn, made her way to psychic’s room, and knocked. A woman’s voice came from inside. ‘Please come in.’
Bian Jin paused in the act of opening the door. She’d heard that voice before.
She stepped into the room. A woman sat in an antique chair in a corner of the room, holding out a cup of peach-blossom wine, ready to welcome her guest. When she saw Bian Jin, her smile faltered.
‘It’s you,’ she said.
‘You recognise me?’ asked Bian Jin.
He Lanzhuo handed her the wine. ‘Mistress Bian, six years ago we led a joint operation on a Xuanzhou camp on Mount Wu, encircling and capturing several enemy regiments. We both attended the victory banquet after that, too. Besides, there are portraits of you all over Muzhou. It would be difficult for me not to recognise you. Please, have a seat.’
Now Bian Jin remembered. At that victory banquet, He Lanzhuo had flung a whole cup of hot wine all over a boorish suitor.
Despite all that, she and the Military Commissioner of Muzhou were barely more than passing acquaintances. For He Lanzhuo to have recognised her through all these layers of disguise was no mean feat indeed. She must have extraordinarily keen eyes, even if she did wear that visor over them everywhere she went.
Bian Jin shut the door, took off her sunglasses, and sat down in the chair opposite He Lanzhuo’s. Her black-gloved fingers were wrapped politely around the winecup, but she did not drink. ‘Military Commissioner Mu,’ she said, ‘I didn’t expect to find you moonlighting in this line of work.’
He Lanzhuo gave an elegant shrug. ‘I don’t have much of a choice, alas. I have a rather expensive little pet[1] to maintain. I assume you will abide by the terms of our non-disclosure agreement, Mistress Bian?’
The two of them had signed a non-disclosure agreement before meeting, promising to keep each other’s identity and the location and the details of the hypnosis session confidential. Bian Jin had put down a deposit for the session, but she’d warned He Lanzhuo that she had a rather high-level Talent, and if the hypnosis did not have the desired effect, she might refuse to pay the balance of He Lanzhuo’s fee.
At the time, their identities were still unknown to each other, and He Lanzhuo had found her mysterious client’s message faintly absurd. The only people beyond the reach of her abilities were the few who had a higher-tier Talent than herself. It’s not as if my mystery client could be Shen Ni or Bian Jin, she’d thought. Well, as things had turned out…
He Lanzhuo propped her chin up on one hand. Her temples were beginning to throb even before the session had started. Well, for the sake of her fee, she needed to give it a try.
‘Please relax as much as you can, Mistress Bian,’ said He Lanzhuo, ‘and follow my instructions.’
Bian Jin put her untouched winecup on the low table between them. Its top was a single piece of finely-wrought lead crystal. He Lanzhuo set something down on the table as well.
Bian Jin looked over. It was He Lanzhuo’s visor, the one she never took off. Well, she’d taken it off now.
Before Bian Jin could look up, a gigantic wave of psychic energy rushed over her, engulfing her completely.
Opposite her, He Lanzhuo crossed her legs and pressed a forefinger to each temple. She tilted her head slightly and stared unblinkingly at Bian Jin. ‘Let me into your subconscious,’ she murmured. ‘I will take that which you wish to forget and sink it into the deepest abyss of your mind. No one will be able to find it…’
***
Author’s Note:
That which one most wishes to keep hidden will always be found out.
***
Footnotes:
- In the original text, 吞金兽 (pinyin: tun jin shou), literally ‘gold-swallowing beast’. In our world, a humorous term often used to refer to one’s children and/or pets, which alludes to the high cost of raising both. [return to text]
douqi 随笔 