[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Perm[/h2]

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Shaoqiang Jun watched as the young doctor slowly unwrapped the bandages from his legs. Mashed blotchy across the bare skin of his legs were the bubbling, pale scars of harsh burns. He watched indifferently as the wounds came to the air. From the door the gaggle of Russian youths watched and cringed from the still-pink scars that deformed the flesh of his legs. The injuries still looked fresh, but he could feel no pain. There was no decided empathy for himself as he looked down at his naked legs.

Slowly, the bandages unwrapped around his ankle. His foot hung at a disjointed angle from the rest of him, a malformed scar in itself from previous injuries.

The only clothes the apathetic agent wore were the unadorned, military boxers. The same pair that he had unfortunately been wearing when he set out from Vladivostok. They had been cleaned, out of the charity of his guardians. And he was much grateful for that.

Looking up at the gang of kids, presided over by their foster, Chinese uncle he felt a light tinge of remorse he'd been leaving. For nearly a month – if not more – they had been tending to him. Fighting his own distant silence and bearing the nature of his secretiveness. Only the agent that watched over them, and tried to hold order in their broken lives really understood. And he knew enough to keep his meaning suppressed.

The young faces hiding in the door cringed back from the sight of his gaze. The blood was beginning to return to his eyes. The unfortunate if harmless malignment of his condition. As much as he was deaf and blind to the cries of his own body from the twisted cutting scars that carved valleys into his chest and shoulders. And the twisted compression of the side of his chest where his own ribs had not healed right.

The doctor looked up at them with an eye of unrest and pained empathy. He knew it would hurt a normal man, and that Jun now would hardly be the same as he was before. But his diagnoses of the extent of his injuries was hampered by Jun's own painless flesh. He had the discipline to keep as still as needed, once it was insisted he lay for a month. But without the biting wrath of new and old wounds striking at his mind through his body it was impossible to say if he ever healed right. Or if the Mafiya hadn't done that much of a number under neath him. And he lacked the resources to explore what was underneath his olive flesh.

“How are you feeling?” asked the doctor. It was a stupid question and he knew it.

“I'm fine.” Jun muttered distantly. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the mattress. He didn't know what it was he was waiting for, to be told to get back into the bed, or to stand up.

The doctor's pained expression gave way that he was giving it much consideration. There was a sea of deep thought behind his heavy brow. “Then get up, out of bed.” he ordered with a dry croak. He stood up and stepped back. Stricken with surprise Jun sat there in his bed, wholly expecting to have been ordered back down. Every appointment had ended that way.

He nodded quietly, and slid from the tattered sheets. His bare feet bumped against the carpeted floor and he felt the weakness in his legs as he staggered to hold himself up on his feet.

“I imagine you'll need to leave soon.” said the young doctor as he stepped back to the empty cot not far away. His appointed informal nurses had been set there to sleep so they can keep an eye of Jun and his orderliness. He watched the agent fight to stay on two feet with a sunken look of resignation. His face seemed shallower and older. Even his hair looked thinner that it should be.

Jun nodded, “It'll be for the best.”

“Then we'll skip the whole physical rehabilitation process.” he sighed remorsefully, “It'll be for the best you learn to walk again as quick as possible before you leave.”

Picking up his bags he stood up off the bed, giving Jun a quick nod without room for argument or protest. With heavy feet he walked to the door. Quickly, the spectators peeled away and thudded off down the stairs like the excited school children they were. He reached the door, and made like he was leaving. But hung there at the door frame, bag in hand. There was a hushed exchange between he and Shu. There curt nods, and he too left, and with the gentleness of a spider the doctor shut the door.

He turned around, and Jun couldn't help but feel suspicious. He leaned against the flaking plaster wall, his legs still felt as if they were jelly as his heart raced in his chest. Instinct roiled inside him, but without the capabilities he could only watch, with his hands meekly pressed against the wall.

“Comrade.” the doctor nodded with a sigh, speaking in Chinese. There was a sharp biting tinge in Jun's spine as a cold wave course up and down his body. Delivered like a revolutionary, but out of place. Too much so. Jun felt panicked at the turn and he grappled against the wall as oriented himself to the young man as he walked towards him. He felt the sudden urge a wounded and cornered tiger must feel when confronted by a poacher.

“Don't think I don't know who you are,” the young man continued as he walked to the foot of the bed, leaning a hand against the foot board as he sized up the crippled Jun, “I had it figured out.”

“What the fuck are you going to do?” snarled Jun. The politeness of the doctor did little to comfort his wariness. It didn't do much to render it anything as less than cockiness. A deep whisper in the back of his mind played a tune of betrayal in his mind's ear.

“Don't be afraid,” continued the doctor as he sat down on the bed. He crossed his hands over his knees as he looked up at him, “But I know that like Tiger, you're not anyone who's supposed to be on benevolent business. As if the extent of your injuries – old and new – didn't indicate you're here as a charitable missionary. Tiger at least fell into the position, and I consider him with no ill-favor.

“But you're someone different. You're not supposed to be rooted in a station like he and his former partner.” he added, in reference to agent Shu somewhere in the house, “Therefore, I'd like to make a request.”

Jun was stunned. Too much so for words. He lapped dryly on his laps as he looked down at him. His body still felt weak, and the anger inside him still bubbled; unable to escape its well, save to trickle out with each breath he made.

“It's my father.” the young man said sadly. His voice fell to a soft whisper, almost as if he was ashamed of it, “I want to know if for sure he's alive, in this world still. If he's in Russia, or China.”

Jun pressed his lip together. Unwilling to respond for a moment. But with a croak he asked, “What do you mean?”

“He worked for the Imperial intelligence service before the Tzar was killed.” he admitted straight-out, “When I was young he actually used to take me down to the river-side or to the industrial corners of the city and from his car he would point out the men who were on shifty business and teach me about them, simply about how they looked and acted. He loved to profile, it was his entire game in life it seemed like. Simply by the way they looked at someone he could tell if they meant to kill that man, or if they were looking for a hit on the street. I'm sure he knew when a man had a hard-on.

“But, the year before I went on to university he disappeared. This was roughly thirteen years ago. We don't know where he went, no one told us. Even he didn't. But we suspected he was sent to Finland to spy on the insurgent freedom fighters.”

His voice choked and he turned away. He pressed his lips into a thing frown. Turning his eyes from the Chinese agent to the distant dusty window in the corner of the room he continued with a voice that wavered with internal conflict, “Mom, my siblings, and I believed he'd be back in a couple months, or even a year. As soon as he identified who was leading the Finnish freedom fighters and could destabilize the revolution there he'd come back home to Perm and we wouldn't worry. That was what we believed.

“But come the czar's death he didn't come back. He was just in Finland, surely with no more orders and all government stability lost he'd come back?” he hissed behind stifled emotion, “I mean, he was still technically in country as the generals and princes tore the nation to shreds. And a man of his caliber could come back.

“But, things continued to weaken, and he did not return. Your people rushed north into Siberia and this so-called Republic was built be a despot's iron hand, almost over-night as the local warlords all came to recognize him, or disappeared.

“That's when I began to suspect: he probably didn't go to Finland.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Jun. A part of him turned uncomfortably this stranger to him was opening up in such a way. He wanted to walk past him, brush him aside with his hand and move on. Speak to Shu, collect information and leave. But he wasn't getting that here, not now. He was a prisoner to some man's emotional tale.

“Call it a hunch.” the doctor shook his head, “I don't have any evidence to back it up or anything. But as my mother passed away and my siblings ended up scattered across the country I was the only one to remain here in Perm. Searching, or more like waiting for my dad's return. Understand, he and I were close. Perhaps dangerously so for his profession. Or maybe I just felt I was close. Shit I don't know!” he confessed, clearly confused.

“Do you want me to find him and send daddy home?” Jun asked sarcastically.

“W-what? I- uh, well... Yes, if you could.” the doctor groaned, “It'd be preferred if you could, really. Or maybe find a way to get word to me if you ever find out if he's dead or not.

“I would go out and look for him, I would...” he continued, pausing uncomfortably, “But I'm stuck here. One of a few doctors in the city with any certification. I have my obligations, to Shu and this new family, as well as the city. But, I would like to know what happened to what remains of my old family. I can't reward you, but I can offer you a prayer.”

“Prayers to non-existent entities don't help me at all.” Jun snarled bitterly.

“Y-yes, forgive me. I understand.” nodded the doctor, “But it's the best I can do.”

“Fine then.” Jun growled, “What's his name?”

“Isaak Girgorvich Alexandrov.” answered the young doctor, “He's a tall man. Looks like me, but older.” he smiled uncomfortably, “Think you can remember?”

“I can try my best.” Jun answered weakly.

“Oh, thank you!” the young man cheered, “Then, uh- have a good day. I probably won't see you again. But I wish you the best of luck.” he got up from the bed and made for the door on light feet. Stopping he turned and said feebly, “And take your time getting used to your legs again.”

[h2]North of Moscow[/h2]

A two-lane road stretched on, contouring over forested hills as it marched lonesomely on wards. The car crested each gentle rise like a boat on a gentle ocean. Together, Ulanhu and Vasiliy carried on their journey, nearing on their port of mission's calling.

“Is exciting to be so near home again.” Vasiliy smiled as he drove the old sports car along. The engine hummed in peaceful meditation as it carried them along. The long hum of the motor having become a normal sound in the cabin.

No one else joined them on the road it seemed. It was long and empty. Along the sides overgrown forest grew tall and thick nearly up to the road's edge. The elms and gentle maples that stood as a solid palisade of wood and over-grown brush forming a cavern of leaves over-head, turning the road almost into a tunnel. The sun light that broke through the boughs over-head came broken and sparse, casting the road into a long green shaded band. There was an almost spooky serenity to it. Broken only irregularly by the road-side billboards that stood on their steel columns among the bushy, green boughs as an almost apocalyptic reminder to the world of the czar before. And along side these the hidden road-lights, crowned in faded bronze and brass highlights, the bodies being slowly engulfed by mildew.

“It looks different.” Ullanhu pointedly observed, intending to describe how other-wordily distant land was to his own familiar life in China. So far deep in Europe, he did not expect the world to seem to barbaric, and primitive. He excused it as merely being no strong central state, or local governments being too weak to handle such pursuits as road maintenance. Yet deep down he knew this was a lie, not all of this had to transpire in the past ten years. Yet he could not help but to compare it to the open steppe of Mongolia, or even the wide-cut highways that crossed China, even if many were far newer than Russia's.

“Oh, is look much same.” Vasiliy confirmed to his partner with his normal cheer, “If much emptier. But is going without saying.”

From the other direction a truck laden with covered goods passed them by. The cabin and body afflicted by powerful body-rot. He wondered why so few drove, why there were so little Russians traveling the roads. He suspected in finer times, this thoroughfare would be an example of life. It was then they passed a gas-station tucked in a clearing off to the side, bordering a marshy swamp-land choked with tall gas. The rusting sign boasted a liter of gas to be near 65 rubles.

He considered raising it as a point of concern, until remembering they had a trunk of gasoline stored in blitz cans in the back.

They continued to drive. As the trees thinned Ulanhu could look at at fields flush with wheat. Or see as the forests rose and fill, dipping and cresting with the low valleys and hills of this region of Russia. The landscape seemed to dance and sway. And through it the road was a straight-path cut through it all, dominating the natural landscape and declaring it its own.

This prestigious act of its own however and fallen dead. Even as they drew up to an intersection there was no motor-traffic besides themselves. In its place were men and locals who drove horses along the broken asphalt. Old farmhouses, still brightly colored in the proud hues of color that so dominated the Russian conscious stood at the corners of the roads. They passed a small diner and cafe built clinging to the shoulder of the road, almost as an easy quick-stop for travelers. Though dark and devoid of anything to fill the parking lot, there was still a sense of pride in the Russian identity there. The log-cabin walls well maintained, and the frilled crowns on the roof and under the eaves giving a bright ginger-bread home feel.

Yet they continued to pass, to the curious looks of the peasantry there.

Ullanhu decided that in the leery silence of travel he'd again strike up conversation, “You mentioned yesterday that you had family living in Moscow,” he started, “Or, your parents did. You implied you might have someone living there still.”

“I did?” Vasiliy asked.

“I think so, at least.” said Ullanhu.

“Wells, parents are dead. We may find room with uncle, aunt.” Vasiliy shrugged, unsuredly, “They'd invite me back warmly, ask where been. I feed them lie, trained lie. But, I know not of you. I know not what to say about you.”

“Are they someone to betray us?”

“I-...” he hesitated, “Uncle used work as banker, I think.” he croaked hesitantly, “So may not like Chinese, communist Chinese. May suspect only Chinese to be in Russia.”

“You could say I'm just a dissident.” Ullanhu suggested.

“Oh yes, is of good plan.” Vasiliy agreed, “From wheres?”

Ullanhu paused to think, trying to come up with a likely lie. Several names came up. Ullanbator itself, Harbin perhaps. Or maybe he could be from Ullanhu or as far south as Hong Kong. But if it were the later, it would make more sense to have fled to Japan first and then spring to America or elsewhere after.

“Harbin.” he affirmed after a moment's thought, “I'll be from Harbin.”

“Cover name?” Vasiliy poised.

“Shu.” he answered, “Shen Shu.”

“Will Shen Shu speak Russian?” asked Vasiliy.

“No.”

“I see. Of good answer then, I suppose. Will we use this to get to president?”

“I got to figure that out still.” Ullanhu lamented, “But I'm afraid I still know too little. I'd like to see the Kremlin first.”

The car continued to wallow on forward. The hum of the engine maintaining a constant low hum. Conversation drifted back into silence and Ullanhu starred again out the window. Wilderness continued to pass them by, and the Mongolian began to wonder when it would end, when it would change. This long round-about route was the sort of scenic route that many would not have taken. It was all through trees tall enough to be blinding, and farm-fields desolate enough to be deserts. For how green Russia was, its woodland expanse was as empty and devoid as the windy steppe of his Mongolian home. Or even akin to the deserts of the Uyghur homeland. Russia was a desert, a constant green desert.

“Comrade, you best of put your best face on...” Vasiliy opened up again, his voice long and stressed, “We come to a checkpoint.”

“Checkpoint?” Ullanhu said, looking aside to the Russian driver. But he stopped before he could turn fully towards him.

A fair distance down the road where the forest gave to an end at a wooden fence stood a blockade across the world. Smoking on piles of tires thrown along the side men sat smoking cigarettes with automatic weapons placed across their laps.

The guards looked up at the sound of the approaching car and shifted uncomfortably as it drew nearer. Their casual relaxation melted away with the smoldering puff of their cigarettes as they rose to their feet and cocked their guns. One – a large man in a deep-blue beret – stepped out into the middle of the road, his hand raised ordering them to stop.

“Polish paramilitary.” Vasiliy said, “Krakow's praetorian in western Russia. Let me do talking.” he whispered under his breath as he lightly tapped the brakes of the car.

Coming to a comfortable halt before the mercenary Vasiliy put the car into idle. He rolled down the window as the checkpoint guard walked over to him. “Good evening.” greeted the soldier as he leaned down at the window, “Can I have identification?” he asked Vasiliy in a bored voice.

“Yes, certainly sir.” Vasiliy complied, reaching into his pocket. Drawing a tattered wallet from his trousers he pulled out an equally battered paper card and handed it over to the soldier. Walking around back another team of men scanned the vehicle for traps or identification. Flashy assault rifles hung at their breasts as they moved.

“Who's the chink?” asked the man.

“He?” replied Vasiliy, pointing to Ullanhu, “His name is Shen Shu.”

“Mr. Shu?” asked the guard, “What does the spook have in Russia?”

“He's a dissident.” Vasiliy explained, “I have been taken care of him since he fled China. He just simply wants out of that country.”

The officer knelt over into the window to get a good luck at Ullanhu. He couldn't help but to stare awkwardly at the heavy gaze of the soldier as he looked him up and down. He could feel the burning weight of the man's eyes, and the condescending thoughts of simply arresting him and Vasiliy for being together in the same car. Yet in the intensity of that man's blue eyes he could hear the confrontation he was having within himself on the lie Vasiliy had told. He felt it was the truth, but didn't want to. Or suspected it was a lie, but had nothing to base it off of. In that moment he had all the power to do something radical.

He breathed out a deep sigh and linger groan and he peeled back from the window. “You're free to go.” he grunted, forcing Vasiliy's forged ID card into his hands.

“Thank you.” he smiled, taking the card back eagerly. With a wave of the officer's hands they were let through the check-point and on they passed. Closer to Moscow, and now within the suburban sprawl of cabins and brightly painted homes of Moscow's distant-most reach.

[h1]China[/h1]
[h2]Shanghai[/h2]

With heavy cheer Auyi waved good bye to the crowd packed into the central Shanghai auditorium. With the conclusion of the rally, he felt a burden lift from his shoulders. The same sort of stage-fright he suffered when addressing the public. It wasn't new, and it was inclusive. He was much assured that every public speaker had to carry that daunting weight of so many eyes bearing on them at once. To be in the public vision was not a weightless existence.

But now it was gone and he was numb to it. He could clamp his mouth shut as he smiled wide. Now the only discomfort was the baking heat of the lights and the poor airconditioning. He felt a tinge of fear that his white suit could be stained from any trickling or beading pearls of sweat that rolled across his skin just under it. But he couldn't look here, he had to get out. And his escape was as tactful as his entrance.

Giving the people the waving salute he retreated out stage-left. As he slipped into back-stage shadows the raging discomfort of focused lighting withered away. The aura of the incandescent glow shutting itself off as he found the cold embrace of the shadows. “How'd I do?” Auyi gasped as he loosened the collar of his outfit as he trotted through the warehouse-like space of the auditorium back stage. He desperately fanned himself by tugging the collar of his shirt. Although it was no warmer than anything, the soft flow of air up along his neck was soothing all the same.

But he couldn't stop. He was on a tight-schedule. Is impish campaign manager had seen to that, and he had to meet him to move along.

“You did great!” an anonymous man complimented. He would have returned in kind, but he had already disappeared through the door.

Water splashed up the leg of his pants as he stepped down from the building's back-door, stepping into a narrow rain-soaked alley. The water shone off of the cobble-stone alley floor and from where the fresh rain-water had gathered in wide-shallow puddles. Parked close-by a long government coup waited in idle with a uniformed attendant.

The car whose skin was black as inky night warbled with a soft rumble as the engine waited. The cabin and nose was a balanced mess of hard edges and beetle-like curves, especially where the hood swept to the nose. The very front of the car seemed to angle itself down, look it was superior to the world.

Auyi gave it no thought as he passed the bowing attendant as he slipped into the cold, air conditioned cab.

“How'd the rally go?” his manager asked from the seat across from him. Auyi threw himself back into the seat, reeling still from the sweat and basking in the cold comforts of more managed airconditioning.

“Well enough.” he said distantly. The windows shone with a gray light from the beads of rainwater that trailed and stuck to the glass like weightless diamonds. He sighed deeply, immediate to take advantage of the physical peace of a car. He was getting tired, and Wu no doubt had more places for him to go.

“That'll be fine.” Wu laughed dryly. As the driver got in Auyi straightened himself up and fastened himself in. His attention turned to Wu, who watched him from behind wide bottle-glass glasses. The lenses shone with an eerie reflected light that made Auyi think: did he even notice?

“I have something to ask you about as we drive to the station.” Wu continued in a dry dictational tone. The motorcar lurched ever slightly as it rolled down the narrow, wet alley, “Or rather, something we should look to do to enhance the campaign.”

“Oh, why?” asked Auyi.

“Well, while the debate did do good...” he trailed off, “It probably wasn't the best for publicity. NPN poll numbers are clocking Xhu at a rise as well. Once more: along the lines of which pollsters had access to what form of media. It's rather interesting.”

“How can that be?” requested Auyi. He twisted in his seat out of curiosity. Outside the cold comforts of the car Shanghai came to view. Or the Shanghai alone the Yangtze river.

Shanghai was a city like Hong Kong, a municipality that straddled two different worlds as per its placement in the political games that took part on China over a century ago. The muscular columned structures of Victorian-era buildings stood in brooding opposition to and oppression to the street below as they pulled out onto the river-side road.

The Shanghai Public Audiotorium was perhaps one of the few original constructions of the modern era of China since the Japanese forces conducted wide-scale bombing and shelling of the city during the Revolutionary period. But even then, the buildings was stinted to favor blending into with the colonnades and towering domes of the old embassies and other such structures of former British, American, or French interest. Many of these had become re-utilized for other purposes.

Even by the river the remnants of European influence remained. Columns erected to dedication to the soldiers who had won them this land stood against the watery backdrop of the Yangtze. And on the other-side of the river the high-rises of a newer Shanghai rose above the treeline.

“Well, in all respect comrade our supporters or new supporters might very well suggest that you're a man best viewed.” Wu observed with an passive wave of his hand. His brow sunk out of the droll boredom of this basic distinction, “It's come to my attention through our statistics sources that those who viewed the debate in theater showings say that you have a very refreshing and visible presence. They point a lot at the suit.

“Radio listeners have however criticized that you're rather boring to listen to. In contrast, Mang Xhu's temperamental manner of speaking is something for them to get behind.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Auyi, “Ditch my white suit?”

“Oh no, hardly.” Wu laughed, comfortingly. It was strange to hear him laugh, he had a high-pitch voice that became even more so when he so much as giggled, “It's one of your stronger areas. No, what we need to do is develop a better presence over the radio if we're going to have a well-rounded campaign.”

“So should I learn to be emotional?” asked Auyi. The car had come to a stop outside the walls of one of Shanghai's several film offices. The building - which was built like a movie theater at the turn of the century – rose with a number of tiers lashed together by vertical pillars as it stood above the river. In an alien display of gaudiness the side of the building was illuminated in neon, proudly showing itself as property of the NPN film office in bright luminescent letters and words. Studio 12 burned from the pale-yellow concrete siding in fierce electrical pink and purple hues.

Auyi looked and gestured to it as if indicating if acting lessons was in his future according to Wu.

“Would take to long.” he sighed, taking the hint and rolling his eyes.

“So, what do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we may need to seek some sort of patronage from the artistic community. Fitting, as we're in Shanghai.”

“Artist community? Music, actors, painters?”

“Well if we're on the topic of sound who do you think?” Wu said, “I was thinking of appealing to the song-writers. We need someone to say something. Music would be the easiest option to make.

“I can go out and find supporters among the music community. See if they can donate any songs or skills of theirs. I have a few names.”

“Like?”

“Well, Chen Yiaoliang would be a good first target.” Wu pointed out, “He's supportive of your office, especially since what you helped him out with a few years back, what with the NPN director. And with his circle of friends and colleagues including foreign artists I'm sure he's a sure-in for the minority representation. He's the voice we need and want, and he can help us access the youth vote.

“Every demographic counts, and we should keep ourselves relevant and strong in your core representation.”

Auyi considered the proposal. Leaning against the side of the car he felt the rain-cooled glass curress his cheek and the soft jostling of the car as his head lightly knocked against the window. “Yeah, why not.” he said, “Do whatever you think is best on this. It shouldn't hurt us.”

“If anything, it might inspire Zhu.” Wu remarked with a sarcastic smile, “But as long as we stay at the head of innovation when it comes to campaigns: we'll be fine.”

[h2]Beijing[/h2]

A small crowd gathered inside the confines of Hou's old office. Standing corners heavy reel cammera stood pointed towards the far-end of the room, their lines of sight intersecting over the chairman's desk, which now stood nearly empty; save for a few trinket's of patriotic importance. A stand at the corner of the desk brandishing a collection of small Chinese flags, and a mount for pens. The old wooden surface itself was barren, save for a thin leather mat at its center.

The office was set like a T. Facing down the center core of the room the desk brooded over a long stretch of crimson carpet over top hard-wood floors. Banks of desk stood sentinel along the side of the room. On the far-side, a bank of windows formed the outer-edge of the top-most arm of that letter T. These windows looked out on the city of Beijing, giving a panoramic view of central Beijing. Among the buildings and ancient neighborhoods Chang'an avenue cut downtown in two. Well beyond it the smoke stacks of factories loomed just barely out of view, churning out clouds of silvery black exhaust. And somewhere beyond all of that was Tianjin and the sea.

Hou himself, who had been in the room for months stood off to the side. Alongside him stood a heavy-weight man who carried himself with a certain Altaic, Jurchen persuasion. He cradled in his hands a animal carrier, where an equally large and unamused feline which curled furtively on the furthest wall of the cage to keep from the loitering and excited dignitaries and journalist's present. Its fearful scowl none to complimentary to that of its owner, who smiled proudly.

Behind these two a stoic guard stood, arms crossed behind him. He gazed over the heads of the assembly, waiting.

“In a minute, chairman.” a camera man called out. Hou nodded receptively as he leaned on his cane. His old tired face had sunken. The excitement of the day thus far was not a relief. Being in this room was chilling for him, and he loathed being in it. But it was better than inviting them to tromp about his house. He wanted that for peace and quiet in his retiring days.

This room was not that. A lot had happened. And a lot of that escape from his own realities as he drowned himself in work and lychee wine.

“We should probably get into their view.” the chairman invited, turning to the man alongside him.

“That'd be good.” he answered, following Hou's languid and slow pace to the desk. It was another reminder about how far he fell physically. Before the stroke, he'd had rushed to and from it. Now he could not. And he tried to not think about it.

The animal carrier thumped as the man put it on the desk. Fumbling with the door, he opened it and pulled out from inside the frightened, mewling cat. The guard moved the cage to behind the desk to keep it out of sight before manning his position alongside the elderly chairman.

“Counting...” a camera man called out, holding out his hand, “In three...” he declared, holding out three fingers, “Two... one.”

“We are present today in the grand secretary's office with Comrade Hou Sai Tang and director Hu Wei of the Ministry of Space and Science research labs, Ullaanbatar.”

“On June 30th of this year we announced that our nation has made great scientific strides.” Hu Wei smiled proudly as he hugged his cat close, “And it is today we would like in full to say this, and to introduce the adventurer who so made the journey beyond Earth's atmosphere and returned.

“At the Ministry installation on Green Island our teams launched a Type-3 rocket, specifically modified to carry in it a life-form. The intent of the mission: to collect physical readings of the effect of exposure to the conditions of outer-space and to confirm that life can indeed survive in space, given the right protective measures.

“Our mission as such has confirmed our calculations and laid the early ground work for missions in the future, and it is placed on my shoulders to announce that we – as a nation – feel capable of exploring Earth beyond its atmosphere. Not with animals, but with volunteers from the people. Volunteers who will be no less or no more heroic than comrade Chou.” he smiled as he lifted up the cat. Its eyes widened at the sudden movement as he was presented to the camera. Shifting on their mounts they moved to capture the shocked and weakly struggling cat. A cat who had just enough being handled, having gone to space and back.

Turning, Wei acted in a manner unrehearsed for this press release and presented Chou to Hou. Hou coiled back, shocked at the invitation to hold the fat animal. But on Wei's insistence he found himself holding the cat none-the-less. Abandoning his cane in favor of support from the startled and panicking guard that had been standing behind him just recently.

Hou found himself starring into the golden eyes of a pet as stricken with as much confusion and fear as he was in that moment. “Ah, thank you.” Hou bowed, shifting to take control of this certainly unplanned maneuver on his part.

“Hold him, hold him.” Wei insisted in a low breath. Hou was angry, and confused. His head swam with wanton loss as he manipulated the cat at the ends of out-stretched arms. Gradually, he pulled the cat closer and held it to his chest. A certain degree of laziness and submission resigned it to being retired to Hou's suit, its chin supported by the chairman's arm and tail flicking annoyed at the other end.

Hou had to assume control. “It is with the honor of my office and my service that I do congratulate our advances.” he said uncomfortably, but assuming the role of politician that he was, “With these endeavors, I have been consoled to know that should we choose we will assume the title of space explorers in approximately five-years time. This is momentous for myself, as it is us. The progress we are capable of making is a proof to ourselves and to the world that we – China – will overcome. Let the light that we shine be a beacon to guide and direct all people to the future.

“Thank you.” he added in stuffy closing.

With a dry click the cameras and equipment were shut off and the present audience shuffled about, making their congratulations and compliments to Hou's current health. Uncomfortably and delicately, Hou returned Chou to Wei. “If I did anything wrong, I'm so-” Wei started.

“Don't say it.” Hou interrupted as he took his cane back from the guard. He leaned against the desk as he starred ahead at a secretary moving through the departing crowd. More of them seemed to have appeared with his absence. “It wasn't much trouble.”

“As you say.” Wei bowed.

“I have word directly from Pemba.” announced the secretary in a hushed breath. Wei departed the scene, still bowing nervously. Hou had decided to not think of it, and wished he would stop nervously seeking forgiveness.

“They couldn't just go through Lou Shai Dek instead?” asked Hou.

“It did, but he said to inform you.” the secretary said, “It's the Ethiopian princess. They found her, and her children. They're on their way to China. They just left.”

“I'll be at home, you can send them there when they land.” Hou ordered, “I want Daohang there too.”

“I'll tell them.”