Dragons and Orbs

[Keida]

永勝溫荷銀行有限公司總部 – 蘭桂大廈 – 永勝技術民國
Wingsing Windhoek Banking Corporation Headquarters – Laan Gwai Tower – Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing​

A red-haired man in a navy blue suit stepped into the elevator carrying a handsome leather suitcase. He tapped the button for the ninety ninth floor and looked to the younger Chinese man next to him, “Is the boss in a good mood?” He asked in Singlish,

“He was when I left,” the junior executive answered, checking his watch, “He won't be when he sees you.”

“Still hasn't gotten over it yet, eh?”

“I think the boss is going to hate Singers until the say he dies, Mr. Korteweg,” he shrugged, “You've got to lose that red hair before he'll offer you any more stock.”

“Well, I've got some news today that'll make me yellower than you in his eyes, Little Chan,” Korteweg tapped his briefcase smugly, “I think everyone's going to go home in a very good mood today.”

The elevator reached the ninety ninth floor with a ding as Korteweg and Chan's ears adjusted to the pressure change. The stepped off the lift and walked past the fountains and art deco lighting that adorned the approach to the boss's office. His secretary was busy chatting on the phone and simply waved the two visitors through, recognizing them immediately.

The two executives found the chairman's office empty. The curtains had been drawn over the enormous panel windows behind his desk, but low lights still illuminated the Chinese artifacts and scrolls that adorned his extravagant workplace.

“I'm in the break room.” His voice filled the room, being projected by some very high-quality speakers that otherwise played soft erhu music.

Chan knew what 'the break room' meant, and he waved for Korteweg to follow him down a side corridor and through a glass door. He was suddenly assaulted with a wall of intense heat and humidity, twice that of the typical Wing Sing summers.

“Good to see you, Mr. Korteweg, Mr. Chan,” the boss said, his visage obscured by a veil of steam, “You may want to make yourselves comfortable before you sweat up your suits.” They were meeting the chairman in his personal sauna.

“I have some reports about the new Community Exchange Program,” the red-haired executive said, loosening his tie and otherwise undressing.

“Favorable reports, I hope?” The sound of water splashing onto hot coals punctuated the chairman's question,

“Mr. Korteweg thinks it'll make him as yellow as me,” Chan joked as he struggled to hop out of his slacks,

The boss laughed, “We'll see.”

“I have all the details in my briefcase,” Korteweg gestured to the leather container outside the sauna, “You can look over the documents when it's a little less humid,”

“Go on,” the boss said skeptically,

“The gist of it is that our arrangement with the Bank of Makai is already realizing eight-figure revenues,” the Singer's face donned a smug grin, “And the well is far from tapped. More opportunities are popping up every day.”

“Nadiya Tan surfaced earlier today,” Chan added, taking a seat on the bench opposite the boss, “Apparently there's already a buyer interested in her.”

“Who?” The boss asked gruffly, letting his head fall back against the wall,

“Republican Jizhou pop princess and propaganda machine,” Korteweg sat down, “She was spotted in a Wong Gok tea house of all places.”

“And this Community Exchange Program can turn her into profit?”

“The Makai have been very receptive,” the Singer's smile widened, “We've cut through the red tape. BoM is getting what they want and we're seeing a very healthy return on investment.”

The boss stroked his chin pensively, “Leave the briefcase on my desk.”

That was not the reaction Korteweg wanted, “Then, you're finished?”

The boss stood up, “Get out.” Korteweg and Chan quickly stood up, heading hastily for the door, “Not you,” he said to Chan, who just as hastily sat back down.

The Singer stumbled out of the sauna and began dressing himself as fast as possible. As soon as the door closed, the chairman leaned back on his bench, “Korteweg does good work,” he said to Chan, “I'm glad he is where he is.”

“Vice President for Acquisitions?” Chan asked for clarification,

“Out of my break room.” The boss answered dryly.

 

[Keida]

中央電力集團 – 永行大廈 – 永勝技術民國
Central Light and Power Group – Wing Wo Bank Tower – Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing​

“Be careful with that!” the middle aged man yelled in Dutch, jumping up from his rich mahogany desk.

“Sorry, Mr. Naaktgeboren!” the girl had arrived in Wing Sing from Sinhai almost a year ago, but she still had trouble with Dutch names. She had tripped over a loose wire and spilled his coffee.

“Get me another one, Juk-saan,” Naaktgeboren said dryly, sitting back down and fixing his suspenders. He never liked working late, but the world was piling opportunities on his desk two meters high. Playing his cards right, he could be running the whole company within a year.

“Yes, sir.” She answered, her head hung low as she pressed some of the wrinkles out of her shirt, “Oh, and there was a call for you earlier while you were out.”

“What?” The Singer's concern showed on his middle aged face, “Who would call at this hour?”

“Apparently it is not so late in Hrodino,” she answered, pouring a new cup of black coffee, “A man called from Sarmatia. Actually, I didn't understand him. I spoke to his interpreter,”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“He would only talk to you, Mr. Naaktgeboren,” she brought the tray over to the executive's desk, placing it down just as the bright exterior lights of Laan Gwai Tower, a few blocks away, went dark. It really was getting late. “He didn't even give a name, sir. Just said he was your 'friend from Hrodino.'”

“Juk-saan,” Naaktgeboren stood up, turning to face the fantastic view of Central Wing Sing out his window, “What time did you receive that call?”

“Oh, it was while you were taking your late evening walk in the sky garden. Somewhere around 23:15, I'd say.”

“And what time is it now?” He clasped his hands behind his back,

She checked her watch, “About 01:30.”

“So why did I not hear about this phone call an hour and a half ago when I walked back into my office?” Naaktgeboren was clearly upset.

Juk-saan began to sense his displeasure and took a step back, “I didn't make a note of it. Your Sarmatian friend asked me specifically to leave no record that he called!”

“Little girl, you're a civilian, aren't you?” The Singer kept staring out the window,

“Yes, sir. I went right to work after I got here,” she didn't like the turn the conversation had taken,

“So you've done no service for the Technocracy at all. It shows,” he sighed, “You seem an able enough domestic helper, but you just don't have a sense of how important service – effective service – can be. You can't know that until you've had an entire nation's future riding on your efforts. You know I am a citizen?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, pointing to a plaque hung above the executive's faux fireplace, “You have that award there from the Chairman.”

“That was Chairman Joeng,” Naaktgeboren looked at Juk-saan's reflection in the window, “Most of my squad earned those commendations.

“The year was 1988. Operation Outrider. Peacekeeping and humanitarian relief in Transpurgistan. The Guard wasn't expecting any casualties more severe than a scraped knee,” the Singer's eyes started to go white as his head filled with memories, “Landslides, flooding and a bunch of peasants who couldn't be happier to see us. We brought food, water, temporary housing. We were heroes. Gods descending from heaven in our helicopters. Exactly the kind of overseas expedition Wing Sing is supposed to be known and respected for.

“But fate has a way of shitting all over everything, doesn't it? We had apparently crossed some stupidly unmarked border into an area unrecognized as part of Barazi. This was the days before the Milliyetci; some peasant militia was just looking to scoop up the supplies we'd brought.

“We bought enough time to dump the supplies and get as many Transpurgis on the helicopter as would fit. In the end, we saved thirty lives, a helicopter and the Technocracy's reputation. It also brought international attention to the seriousness of the collapsing Barazi Union and the plight of the western Independent States. Not that either of those problems have been fixed.

“But all that is beside the point,” Naaktgeboren finally turned around, resting his hands on the back of his enormous chair, “The point is, take your service very seriously. And always make sure I get my messages,”

“Yes, sir,” Juk-saan answered sheepishly,

“Now you can go home. I have my coffee, and a lot of work to do.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, making for the door.

Now alone, the Singer sat back down and thumbed through some of his documents. He knew what his 'friend from Hrodino' had called about, looking down at a classified memo from the acquisitions and expansions department: Request for Tender: Development and Maintenance of Electrical Infrastructure in the Former Freiheit.

A wise man once said that war is good for business. The same wise man added that peace is good for business.

 

[Keida]

私人宴會室 – 外國記者會 – 永勝技術民國
Private Dining Room – Foreign Correspondents' Club – Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing​

A black limousine of Cornavian make stopped in front of the old colonial building on Vandeput Street. A row of automobiles behind it made their displeasure known with a staccato burst of their collective horns. The limousine didn't care. Its driver seemed to be taking his time as he stepped out of the front and opened the rear door for his one and only passenger.

The lovely miss Nadiya Tan, made up but not particularly well-dressed for the occasion stepped out, thanked her driver and entered the building. Its heavy wooden doors were opened for her by an Uroduah doorman. Soft classical music, Aren in origin, filled both the foyer and her ears as she looked around the ancient institution. Lovingly-framed front pages of old newspapers adorned the walls of the Foreign Correspondents' Club, some of them dating back to the nineteenth century. Many of them had stories covering the Great War in the East, owing to Wing Sing's status as a stable, peaceful place for journalists of the time to use as a base.

CHENGYUAN FALLS TO OIKAWA

CHOSON'S LAST STAND

INDEPENDENCE FOR VANGALA

SRI RAMA BLEEDS​

Original prints of iconic photojournalism held places of honor: President Zhang of Jizhou bows to the Emperor of Oikawa in 1950, a Sai Yok mother holds her screaming child with a gun to her head in 1956, a ragtag fleet of rickety boats brings Koreans to Seocheon during the Great War. These photos fill history books around the world. Nadiya's attention is pulled away from an image of Warreic troops setting up in Chaai Hwan Bay by someone calling her name,

“Miss Tan?” He was a small Chinese Singlishman, shorter than she was in heels, but better dressed than she was. He looked like a banker, and that's what he was, “My name is Theo Chan, with WWBC. I'll be escorting and interpreting for you.” His Jizhou Chinese was good, but he was clearly a native Singlish speaker.

“Well, thank you for the invitation, Mr. Chan,” she answered, letting him take and kiss her hand, “But I still don't understand all this. It was nice of you to send a limousine, and I certainly appreciate the money. But what does a bank want with a retired singer? I already said I'm not doing any spokesman stuff or-”

“Save your questions, Miss Tan,” he waved away her concerns, “I couldn't answer them anyway. Please, Mr. Korteweg has saved the private dining room for us. He should be able to explain everything.” Chan beckoned for her to follow, leading her through a very upscale restaurant filled with journalists glued to television sets blathering the latest news. They continued on into a classic turn-of-the-century Batavian dining room featuring a round table and topped with a Chinese-style lazy susan.

The red-haired Korteweg was waiting for them. He'd already made himself comfortable; removed his jacket and tie. Nadiya admired the gold clasps on his suspenders, “Miss Tan,” he said in Singlish, interpreted to Jizhou via Chan, “I'm Herman Korteweg, Vice President of Wingsing Windhoek Banking Corporation for Acquisitions. Please, have a seat. You look hungry, let me offer you something to eat.”

The former pop princess took her seat next to Chan and opposite the Singer. She wasn't used to dealing with caucasians and had to keep herself from staring. “Thank you. I'll just have whatever you recommend,” she folded her hands in her lap, “Now I was already asking your associate what exactly it is you want from me. I'm staying out of the entertainment business for good.”

“No problem at all, Miss Tan. WWBC isn't an entertainment company. And in fact we aren't looking to employ you at all,” Korteweg sipped lightly at his tea, “Ultimately, all we want to do is get you out of that tea shop you're wasting away in.”

Nadiya listened closely as Chan interpreted, but ended up cocking her head in confusion, “You're really not being clear,” she complained, “You don't want to hire me, but you want me out of the tea shop, so you sent me a limousine and a big pile of money?”

A waiter brought in a dish of raw seafood wrapped in rice. It looked like little sharks with tendrils. “Hold that thought, this is my favorite Singlish food,” Korteweg said, taking a few of the wraps with his chopsticks, “Have you ever had squark? It's a coastal Jizhou seafood in origin, but only in Wing Sing has the art of its preparation been perfected. The way the little tentacles tickle your throat before the smooth part slides down so effortlessly. So juicy.”

Chan's translation almost disturbed the girl a little, but she decided to go ahead and try some of the food, “I think I've had it once or twice.”

After swallowing a few of the wraps, Korteweg wiped his mouth with a monogrammed napkin and leaned forward, “The long and short of it is that, for reasons we don't care to understand, prominent figures from the Republic of Jizhou are gathering in the Makai Islands. We're deliberately avoiding any details, but it seems to deeply involve members of the Zhang family. Tianbai and Tianming's names have been floated about, we don't know or care if Bowen is associated. None of that really matters,” the Singer paused to let Chan's interpreting catch up with his talking, he watched Nadiya's reactions carefully, “What we do is we find people like you, elites from the Republic's top echelons, tell our contacts in Makai, make sure you get to Port Saint Joy safely and comfortably, and collect our fee.”

“I was just a pop star, Mr. Korteweg,” she objected, “I didn't have anything to do with the government. And honestly, I don't want anything to do with what I did in Jizhou. Isn't that what Wing Sing is all about? A new start? Just let me start new, as Siu-syut. I'm done being Nadiya Tan.”

“Didn't you ever have squark with Hua Mingchao?” Korteweg said slyly, taking another bite, “I think I remember the Cultural Minister had quite a taste for this stuff too.”

Chan stopped interpreting for a moment and looked to Nadiya himself, “This really is the chance of a lifetime. Starting over in Wing Sing as a tea waitress is one thing, but starting over in Makai at the forefront of a movement for the freedom of an entire nation; that's something entirely different.”

The Singer started humming along with the classical music, nonchalantly enjoying the rest of his meal while Chan argued with Nadiya. “Let's not mince words. You were a pretty propagandist in Jizhou. Wealthy and beloved of many. But ultimately an empty shell. These Makai are offering you a chance to be fabulously wealthy, beloved of millions and to be part of perhaps the most important movement in the history of the East.”

“And if you don't do it for any of those reasons,” Korteweg added in his own Jizhou Chinese, “Do it for the other White Guards, God rest their souls.”

While Nadiya sat there thinking about what to do, she noticed the music had changed. The speakers were now playing a light orchestral version of her last hit single, “Run Devil Run.”