[b]Novosibirsk[/b]

Radios echoed like ghosts in the hall. The still and patient officers that manned them sat at a handful of desks. Arranged in an orderly file they went through the incoming briefs from the field, compiling them to paper in a certain rigidity. Their faces as stoic as cold rocks as they listened into the heavy frame-built headphones that crowned their ears.

These weren't men that would see battle, and they looked the part. They were too clean, and too gentle in the face to have ever felt a bullet graze their skin. In their uniforms they looked more collegial than military. More bureaucratic in olive than soldier in blood. Even if they wore the effects at their sides, the pistol, the knife. But even loaded for the off-chance they were really more of a decoration than weapons.

Behind the scene, a sergeant stood post alongside a door. Much like the room it was in, it was sparse and barren. Arms wrapped behind his beck he stood at attention as one of the radio men got up out of his seat, and walked to the door. A file in hand.

“Step right in, comrade.” the guard saluted, stepping aside. The radio operator paid him little heed. It was if anything a bore of a formality, just about everyone understood that much. By shift's end they'd probably be drinking together with the Russians, trying their best to avoid the following hang over.

With a groan he opened the door, stepping inside in an office on the edge of ready to move.

“Shàng Jiàng Hue Wen.” the officer said, this time stopping at attention as he brought his hand to salute. He looked towards the window of the office, where leaned the coated and robed figure of the general of the Chinese forces in Russia. Alongside him his Russian counter-part, by far a more grizzled and ragged individual. Compared to the trim and refined, pressed dress of Wen, the Russian was a civilian by stature. A tattered brown wollen coat with a fur ushanka.

“Jūnshì.” nodded the general, “What have we got today?”

“Report from the north, comrade.” the soldier said, holding out the manilla folder, “Quan Yun-qi reports he has taken the targeted site, sir.”

“Very good, thank you.” the general said, taking the folder and waving him off.

“You're welcome.” he replied, bowing as he stepped back out of the room. The door shut softly behind him as Wen turned to his companion.

“Why do we bother to take such a secluded station.” the Russian scowled. His voice was thick and heavy. It nearly turned his Chinese into gibberish. He frowned under his thick wollen beard as he watched his Chinese partner round back to the window.

“So we can break our enemy's back.” Huei Wen replied, “I don't want to give them any more positions to mobilize from that I can't control. If I can reduce the range they can move freely through, the better. Means we can starve them in their cities, and we control what really matters.”

The Russian scoffed, “The cities are what we should be taking. There's too much wilderness in Siberia for us to contest!” he protested.

“I know. But that's why we take key positions.” Huei Wen laughed, flipping through the after action report. “That site is worth it, since it gives us a position to spring from. And we can shut down that area of their communications network. Choke the high and low bands with too much noise and keep them deaf and dumb.

“At least it's what I've been told I could do. Of course means we mute ourselves.”

“That aside, what do we take from this victory, except a wilderness prison.”

“Code book.” Wen said confidently as he held open one of the pages as he turned it to the Russian.

The bear studied it intently. The handwritten Chinese keeping him slow no doubt. “We'll arrange to pick it up one the first supply drops and we can keep ahead of the Republic for the next few weeks at least.” wen continued, “You know that well, don't you?”

“I do.” he said, “But it's a short-term victory. What more can we do with that outpost?”

“Well, apparently most of the original camp fields were burned down. So I see an airfield potential there. We got a northern angle on here clear to their capital. We can bomb them as asymmetrically as we need, and the Bureau can fly the rest to look out for anyone moving to take out the prison.

“We can close down Surgut from there, force its surrender by the end of next month.”

“And what then?”

“And then?” Wen said with a smile as he turned to the window, “And then I leave for Omsk. As soon as that city is ours - or most of it is – I want to be there on the front with the rest of the soldiers. I'm not going to let the distance between there and Novosibirsk dilute what I need to know. I need to know what's going on. I need to see the music played.”

“Music?” the Russian scoffed, “What fucking bullshit are you talking about? I haven't seen or heard of song in war.”

“Aye.” the Chinese general grinned knowingly, “Not for some centuries, comrade. But there's still a time and place. You'll know it. You'll need to follow me when I uproot.”

[b]Kalachinsk, Russia[/b]

Loose treads rattled across battered pavement as the tank limped back into base. Around it ran the excitement of war. Trucks and small cars laden with the bloodied and battered sped past. Then it passed deadened streets, where hardly wandered a soul. Through the dusty and foggy windows of thick plastic glass there could be seen the depressed wanderings of lost dogs, or the few odd townsfolk who had returned to their home to try and live a normal life in the midst of war.

The sounds of cannons and gunshots crumpled and were muted out. Replaced with the thin flashing and smacking against the hull the loose treads. Heavy wire held the metal plates together, and that already sounded like it was coming undone.

Clearing the silent streets the lumbering tank rolled into the center of town. Ruinous buildings still lay torn and shattered across the street. But in part the very center was open and immaculate. A busy atmosphere swarmed around the town hall, where now hung Chinese and Siberian banners, red as blood and orange as the morning sky. Men parted from their runs, escorting incoming supplies to their stockpiles to be later distributed. Work was being done on a towering radio mast being erected on sandbag and brick anchors.

The grinding of the broken feet of the steel beast of burden brought to their attention the engineers, who immediately flagged down the Tei Gui, directing Song to alongside their command post.

“You back so soon?” shouted the mechanic as Song threw open the hatch to pull himself out, “What happened? Hell, you can't be out of shells already!”

“We got our treads hit.” Commander Song replied. He hissed bitterly around his words, sitting himself on the rim of the hatch.

“Fucking Hell. Alright follow me around back. We'll look at it.” the Mechanic growled, stepping aside.

Sun Song had yet to come down from the anger of being crippled. For too long a moment they had been rendered vulnerable, because of blindness. As his new driver followed the mechanic as he waved them around, making great exaggerated waves of his hands, he wondered how long it would take. Or if the means to repair the damage had even arrived yet. Much of it looked ready to move in a moment. What they had he feared was set up to service to catastrophic damage.

And he wanted to be out there. He could hear the fight still raging over the radios. The vague indications of position and the response calls. Squadrons were beginning to close in on Omsk. Stay tuned to Combat Radio.

They moved around back of the town hall. Where parked in rank and file were the many damaged vehicles from the war effort. Stacks of bricks, chairs, heavy tables, bed frames, or anything that could be moved and sustain the weight of the Chinese jeeps, buggies, and trucks had been brought out. And arranged on top the work load of the logistical and mechanical corp. Burst tires, frayed chassis, and other menial sources of labor. And in the furthest corner a pile of the already destroyed, burned remains of war's effects.

In that pile of steel and shattered glass there was no distinction made between Chinese or Russian. And no doubt to the mechanics if there were any parts left in working order they'd use it, if it fit. Anything to keep from more requisition paperwork.

Alongside the building say a record player. It looked battered and charred. Bullet holes had cracked open its wooden casing and the arm of the needle was bent. And the ply-wood shell speakers didn't look in any better condition. But it worked. It was soft in comparison to the rumble of the tank engine. Barely there, a whisper. But it played its songs. Homely. Chinese. Sounded like Wen Chaoliang.

Sun Song looked down at it. Whomever had repaired it did a good job. It sounded like home.

“How long?” Song shouted from the turret, turning from the battered record player to the mechanic officer.

“Shit, I don't have all the equipment I could want to do a perfect fix.” he shouted back as he motioned for the vehicle to stop. He bit his lip nervously as he motioned to kill the engine, “But I can try to hook something up with the boys. You're the first armored casualty we had this entire front. I hardly got the cranes to lift one of these up.” he spoke much softer now the sound of the diesel engine had cut out.

“Fuck.” Song swore, leaning his head into his hand.

“I'll try something out here. My men and I might be able to make something out of scrap to lift it up enough to get into it and throw a new link over where you got tore up. But I can't promise same-day service. I could be twelve-twenty four hours.”

“That's just what I needed.” grumbled Song.

“Look on the bright side,” the mechanic smirked as he walked to the side, “Get to have a bit of a breather.” he laughed.

“Who did the patch job?” he asked suddenly, leaning down alongside the side of the tank.

“I did!” Lin shouted from within the hull, pulling herself out. A bright look of victory shone in her eyes as she smiled.

“Well, I shouldn't be surprised.” the mechanic scoffed, looking up at the brimming Lin as she pulled herself out, “Any case, I'll still see what I can do. So long as I can find the cable cutters.”

He nodded, pulling himself off. Sliding down alongside the soldier he still didn't feel at ease with the prospect. But then sometimes he felt he should be off the field when it was hot. It was confusing, and he was still angry.

“Just...” he started, “Just see what you can do.”

“Understood, comrade.” the man said, pulling out a flashlight from the heavy utility belt wrapped around him. He shone the light up into the underside of the vehicle, searching for holes and further damage. “What'd you hit, if I might ask?”

“We were driving along the tracks and we rolled over a mine.” Song said in a low voice, he looked up at the hatch as Li Tsung pulled himself out. He still looked visibly shaken. Pale. His eyes were deeply apologetic, child-like. He shot a sorry frown as he saw his superior officer glaring at him.

“He the one?” the mechanic said, just above a whisper.

“Unfortunately.” Song nodded, “Can you hold on to him, while I think something over.”

“The fuck is he going to do?” the mechanic said, aghast.

“I don't know. Help. Something.”

“I'll find something.”

“Private Li Tsung!” Song shouted out. Tsung froze seated on the iron, barreled nose of the vehicle he piloted, “I want you to stay here. That's an order.”

[b]Perm, Russia[/b]

The train came to a stop with a rattle and a whistle. Jun could feel the cars slow under him, and come to a jaunty stop minutes later. With a rattle of the chains and the loose boards around him it was confirmed that his icy ride had drawn to a stop. He could still see his breath before him as he stood up, creeping across the moldy straw-packed floor. His fingers stroking the hilt of his sword he pressed himself carefully against the wooden side, peering out. All he could see where trains. Rusted iron trains. Faded beaten wooden ones. A light gray smoke hung in the air around him, a fog of mist from off the breaks and from the engine.

He couldn't hear anyone. So train yard security had yet to come. That's for sure. He'd need to act fast. Throwing open the doors he did that. Taking the jump out of the car and onto the cold gravel below.

Parked on either side marched on large curves in the ice and snow marched the long snaking body of another train. A tanker, but the looks. But the peeling white paint, rust in the hinges, and the massive amounts of scrawling and accumulating graffiti suggested that its use had been negligent in recent years. Crude messages in Russian littered its side in black paint and marker. And as he crawled along its cold side keeping an ear for people out came across bottles filled with snow and ice that had been stored on its iron-wrought carts.

Snow rested banked in banks under the cars and alongside. They rose up in waves and wrapped over the hitches between the cars, burying those sections that were ignored.

And echoing in the distance he could hear those voices he suspected. Lonely and tired, shouting in the distance. They were out and were about to do their sweep through the cold fog that hung over the city. And catching his breath Jun stopped. Listening.

They were ahead, of course. But to how close he couldn't say. Stalking backwards he placed his hands on the cold tanker hull. Feeling down it as he moved through the cold snowy gravel. Looking for a ladder. His hands hit the metal rungs, and he grabbed hold, pulling himself up. They were rough and cold in his fingers as he scaled up to the top.

The wind was cold cresting the iron tank. Flakes of snow brushed past, lifted by the wind. But as he stood he felt as well a strange warm undercurrent. Some heat the fought with the cold, and below laid out the heavy fog that the Chinese agent could see choking the river of concrete and steel. Drowning the rail yard in a thick soup of murky white milk.

Turning about as he crossed over to the next tracks he saw the city, rising out of the murky white mist of a warm early-spring's day. Jutting out like tomb stones in a snow-covered graveyard rose the city of Perm. With spears rising from the mist as church steeples to impale the over cast sky above, and domed mausoleums of government resting low in the milky sea between Asia and Europe. Here was the divide of worlds. Nestled on the southern tip of the Urals, sat in a throne between hills. Cut and divided by rivers that the agent could see as black snakes in the silvery cowl of fog. Far in the distance the Russian wilderness marched gently skyward on glacial marches, lined with trees to the higher foot hills of the Urals. Here was the furthest Jun could ever have dreamed of going. Here he teetered on the edge of a familiar continent, and on into a foreign one.

From below the voices of the Russian guards became louder. Jun didn't have time to admire the distant skyline of the next city of his operation. It wouldn't be long until they found his tracks, and with any luck they'd suspect only a wayward hitchhiker. Scrambling off the other side he hit the snowy gravel with a soft thud, and ran off between the tankers.

[b]Beijing, China[/b]

The low hanging gray of clouds hung over the Chinese capital, bathing the city below in diamond white flakes of late-season snow. The light dusting dropped over the capital, shimmering from the roof-tops and laying a thin coat along the ancient stone streets. The late throws of winter keeping a constant sheet of chill on the city.

Bustling through the winding hutongs the gray coated citizenry bustled between their homes or their jobs as afternoon waned on over head. Along the main roads busying women skirted along with the day's groceries slung over their backs. Trucks laden with country-side supplies passed down the plowed and slush bricked streets, a remnant of the old days. Mixing in as well the civilian automobiles that converged on the affluent heart of Chinese politics, as cold as it was. And rising over the city from its heart the psuedo-modern high-rises of politics loomed over head as a reminder to those who held power. A stark contrast to the outer districts that still stood as they had in the old centuries. Even if carved by highway and widened paved avenues.

Riding low and dark through the traffic, flagged with red and guided by the flashing lights of the police security cut the carriage of Hou Sai Tang. A long staff car, painted black and its windows tinted so heavily the outside looked to be like dark ghosts pressed against a stoney and cloudy existence. The aging chairman sat in the back, leaned against the back of the pale-brown leather seats. A wooden cane held between his knees as he stared out the window of the passing city. His city. Though now it felt more distant. Since his announced retirement he had long left Beijing in favor of living outside of Tianjin, his city of birth.

The driver was a young party officer, dressed in the conservative styling of the National Police Service. His cap pulled low down over his eyes, shielding them from the dull glare off the snow and the gray clouds over head. Playing low over the radio so instrumental folk song waxed longingly. Not over-bearing, but soft enough to be in the background at best.

“Give me an hour with Xiogang Wen.” Hou said in a low voice.

“An hour to pass a bill, comrade?” the driver inquired, perhaps to prying. He must have felt the old gaze of Hou turn from the window to the back of his neck. “I'm sorry to inquire, comrade.” he said apologetically, voice almost tripping, “I was just told all this is what it'd be.”

“It's no harm.” Hou excused, raising his hand, “But I just need to talk to the good secretary. I have some words to exchange with him, as a member of Politburo.”

“Understood, comrade.” the driver nodded, “Then you're expected at the General Command?” he asked seeking confirmation, “That date is still on.”

“It is.” Hou nodded.

“Understood.” the driver nodded as he rolled to a gentle stop at an intersection. Here the old cobble roads met with the smooth asphalt pavement of modern road work, glazed with a packed and dusty layer of snow.

Steadily and confidently the car pulled out onto the avenue and merged in with the traffic, its escort close behind. Winding through the old echoes of Beijing it drew in closer to the modern heart. As it drew closer to Chang'an brick and cobble and old mortar gave way to the metal, glass, and cement of the modern Beijing. The dark shimmering towers of the new government looming more over head.

As the convoy connected to and pulled onto the long and wide central Chang'an avenue the eternal landmarks of Beijing came to view. The reddened walls of the Forbidden City, an illustrious palace of old, transformed into a museum for the Revolution, Tienanmen Square across from it, with its towering red and burnt-orange arches and long snow-covered greens and swept brick walks and plazas.

Hou could still smell the sulfur and the burning of the city after the Revolution as he looked out down the Corridor of a Thousand Steps. When at the end, when the besieged Emperor surrendered from the palace, from where he tried to reforge his old Emperor. Old Puyi. He and his meager and starved court were forced to march down the corridor, in view of the bedraggled revolutionaries. Those who had followed him to the heart of the Second Qing. Hou had wanted revenge. For Wen Chu.

Behind through the windshield the glass and brass pagoda of the Beijing Opera House stood faint against the snowy murk of late winter. Ahead down the avenue as they drove east, passing Tienanmen and the Forbidden City the dark towers of governance stood watchful. He could make out their forms quickly.

Stepped and layered like some merger of American deco and Chinese architecture was his office, or his former office. The nerve center of the ministries and the office of the Grand Secretary. It's dozen conference halls, it's libraries of files, and the armies of workers who simply organized the numbers and shuffled the papers and meetings. Perhaps he might blame them for his condition. If he had not chosen to distance himself so much, and to drown himself in work...

Beyond that the arced and molded pillared halls of the Congress stood brazen above the old architecture of the city. It was as much a stranger as the office of the Grand Secretary. Some misplaced model of western architecture in a city of Eastern descent. It wrapped around like a building reaching to bring in its citizens for a hug, pillared and wrought of stone like the halls of Germany. Topped with a concrete dome, blazoned with dragons from whose mouth flew red banners. It wasn't as imposing as the Grand Secretary's office in height, but in the area it took it bested the black and red and orange tower of Hou's former office.

The escort continued passed the office. Its open snowy square dimly lit by the incandescent lights that were never turned off. Low black pillars, topped with a glass dome about waist high. Their light was weak in the day, but by night they kept the plaza out front in a constant warm glow hiding no one.

The motorcade kept moving on. Weaving through the traffic that parted to let them by. It was sleepy. Chang'an always was at this time. Winter was not very inviting to bicycles.

Passing on the right the long sweeping arms of the Congressional Hall drew in from behind the tenants and small stores and restaurants of Chang'an. Reaching out to encircle a plaza where stood a statue to soldiers, the wide columned halls reached out to Beijing. An impressive awning of graying green tile covered in snow swept out and then up from the entrance way. An army of flags hung from posts along the walls and the side, bathing the gray of its shell in bright fiery red.

The motorcade merged gentle towards it. Hou felt the soft bump as they left the main road and onto the private drive that wound around the back of the building. Slowly dropping gently into the cold concrete and blackened brick. The Chairman was arriving.

____

“I suppose you're not too interested in ceremony.” Xiogang Wen smiled as Hou entered his office. It was large and spacious. Comfortably warm. A large grandfather clock in the far corner ticked softly alongside large glass windows looking down on the Congressional Plaza below. Dark red shades hung pulled to the side open to the gray winter light.

“If we do need to do a ceremonial signing then I'd like it to be quick.” Hou coughed as he hobbled across the thick carpet of Wen's office. Wen himself was an old man, like much of the founding government now. Though he had not yet began to gray, his hair was thin and spindly and lay combed weakly over a balding cranium. The distinctness of his chin had softened as his neck sagged.

“Just as well.” Wen bowed, walking around the edge of his mahogany desk. It was sparse and spartan, perhaps one of the few things like that in his office. But for what it made up for in rich carving it did for the elaborate dark satin stain. Seating himself at the black leather chair behind the table he rifled through the drawers, pulling out a red-covered book, about half a pinky thick.

“Well, the job is finished.” the congressional secretary laughed. It wasn't particularly proud, or happy. But it was tired and dreary, “All we need is your signature and we can establish the autonomous districts.”

“As I've been waiting for.” Hou mumbled, strolling over to a chair set up opposite of Wen. He groaned as he sat, pulling a pen from the desk. There was a lot on it, photos of family, calenders and planners.

“And I got one other thing to talk to you about too.” Hou said in a low voice as he flipped over the new law, scanning the title page and skimming through the first few pages, “I didn't come all this way to sign something into law. I could have ordered that delivered straight to my residence.”

“I figured there was something more.” Xiogang nodded. His beady wrinkled eyes dropped to the pages as his superior went through, skimming the tightly packed text and finding the lines to sign.

“There is, something of a promise I made. I suppose you could say that.”

“To who?” Wen asked cynically and dispondent.

“Zhang Auyi.” Hou replied, looking up from the bill, “But I also suppose it's not so much a promise, thinking on it. I told him I'd consider it. And when in Beijing on business not restricted to only signing legislation then what better time than now?

“What do you think of Auyi, comrade?”

“I hold no oppinion.” said Xiogang, “Are you saying I should?”

“You could, but I can't hold sway either way. But he spoke with me, and I can't help but feel that he'd be a better candidate. He has the spirit.”

“We did as much as Politburo is allowed to do, which is to let him run.” Wen grumbled. He was tense as he sat back in his chair, “For now we should really just let the entire thing run out on its own.”

“I'm aware.” Hou nodded, finding the final line on the bill and shutting it closed. Sliding it across the desk he added, “But perhaps you might be able to do something as the head of the Congress.

“I'm not asking you to speak. Just requesting to maybe move some thing around. Get him some allies, maybe. In the papers he announced his support for this legislation, if you needed a catalyst.”

“And the autonomy law itself was fairly contentious even among some of its supporters.” Wen coughed, “It had just enough votes to pass.”

“I know, I still keep up with the Beijing news.”

“But, I'll see what appointments I can encourage.” Xiogang nodded, “But no promises. To him.”

Hou smiled. A short and tempered grin, “Thank you.” he said.