垃圾灣入境口岸 - 永勝技術民國
Laap Saap Bay Port of Entry - Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing
Laap Saap Bay Port of Entry - Technocratic Republic of Wing Sing
A line of refugees stretched the entire length of the facility and out the door, as far as Corporal Tsui Zou-jiu could see. “The Technocratic Republic welcomes you,” a the loudspeakers announced in Jizhou Chinese, “There is no war in Wing Sing. Here you are safe. Here you are free. A civilian of the Technocratic Republic makes his own destiny, a citizen shapes the nation's.” The message repeated again in Singlish and Dutch.
Tsui watched them shuffle, listening to the announcement. The 'boat people,' they were sometimes called. The poorest arrived with a knapsack full of clothes and little else, the richest brought livestock with them. They even brought the goats here, into the port of entry. Tsui had a rifle, and when he got very bored, he'd think about what would happen if he shot one of the goats. He couldn't really imagine what the rifle was for. Were they afraid of a stampede? And if they were, would a rifle really help?
But the short (even for a Singlishman), jumpsuited corporal had another duty in addition to crowd control. He was on the lookout for 'war criminals.' Even with Oikawan troops running around the capital, they hadn't been able to catch the top dogs of Jizhou's so-called 'Yiyuan Clique.' And the Oikawan embassy in Central believed, rightly or wrongly, that they might make for Wing Sing with all the other refugees.
“They were probably in Port Saint Joy a month ago,” Tsui said to himself, looking over the poster of 'report on sight' faces. “As if Li Yuying would come shuffling in here with a goat,” he scoffed.
“Oi, soldier boy!” An elderly refugee called to Tsui, his toothless mouth somehow producing passable Singlish, “Help an old man with his cart?”
The corporal sighed and nodded to one of his cohorts down the line before hopping over the rail that divided the soldiers from the refugees. “You speak Singlish, gramps?” Tsui asked, shouldering the man's cart full of clothes and other essentials,
“A little. I work in Wing Sing when I am young,” he stood up proudly, “'Acquisitions Liaison for Nationalist Party of Jizhou,'” the old man smiled, “Zhang Hao, or Zoeng Hou. You choose.”
“Wait,” Tsui stopped moving and dropped the cart, holding up some refugees behind him, “Did you just admit to me, a soldier of the Wing Sing Laap Saap Garrison, that you are a member of the JMD?”
“I did, I did!” He laughed, the seriousness of the situation eluding Mr. Zoeng, “Now hurry up, I need my civilian ID card. Zoeng Hou, civilian of Technocratic Republic. That's me!”
“You realize I'm supposed to report all JMD members to my superiors, who presumably send you to an Oikawan death camp or something.” Corporal Tsui shouldered the cart anyway,
“But you not do that,” the old man said, not looking back, “You a good boy. Help an old man with his cart.”
Tsui started to get annoyed, “Why won't I do that?”
“Listen.” Zoeng said, holding up a finger to the loudspeaker:
“There is no war in Wing Sing. Here you are safe. Here you are free.”
“You not need bring Li and Yoshikawa's war here. You let an old man get civilianship, maybe open noodle shop.” They were fast approaching the front of the line, “Jizhou is dead. Nationalist Party is doomed. Li gambles in Makai with government money. Yoshikawa rapes my grandchildren. Only Wing Sing is Chinese for Chinese,”
“Name?” The pretty young bureaucrat asked,
“Zoeng Hou”
“Birthdate?”
“9 June, 1926”
“National origin?”
“Republic of Jizhou”
“Welcome to Wing Sing, Civilian Zoeng,” she said, smiling appreciatively, “Here you are safe. Here you are free.”