[h1]China[/h1] [h2]Guangzhou[/h2] “We have your ship fitted out and ready to go.” the sailor said as he lead the Bureau agents along the river side. It was night. Across the dark waters that made up the Zhujiang estuary. Not a quarter a mile from the naval yard was the Shizi Ocean and its wide deep course into the South China Sea. The reflection of street lights and a few lone automobiles driving on the late night roads were reflected in the dark waters of the oily black river. Stopping briskly under the orange glow of an incandescent light they stood at the gang plank onto what looked to be a run down junk. “It's quiet a piece of work.” Huang Du whistled. Arban stood stopped behind him, a serene look of despair and disgust firmly planted on his face. The junk was yet still an old wooden ship, probably once ran by sails. But between then and now the masts had been cut out, and even from a short distance with the motor silent in the water a faint acrid smell of oil and gasoline hung in the air from an engine that had likely not seen repair since the 1940's. In the faint light the two agents could see the discolored boards of its hull, spotting the lighter color new wood from the darker old. Patches of sheet metal had been hammered low near the water line into its hull and they and the rivets used to affix this shoddy armor looked to be the newest addition to the ship. Its cabin was crowned with a sheet of tearing tarpaulin, and a motley collection of surplus field guns were inconspicuously thrown about the deck, mortars and machine guns stood in the open warm early summer's air with the light of the city behind silhouetting them against the darkness. “Well from the requisition's request we got I was lead to believe you wanted something, 'a pirate from the north of Borneo might pilot'.” the sailor said, with a laugh. “I don't know what they're sailing out around there, but I imagine this is close enough. I dare not ask what the Bureau wants with it though.” “It's good you don't.” Arban said, “How's the crew?” “They're not green horns if that's what you're wondering. I've a mechanic of three years on that ship with you and at least fifteen sailors who've been patrolling the waters between here and Macau and Hong Kong Island for the better part of five at most.” “No uniforms, I hope.” “No, they're all dressed in their grandfather's clothes from the rice fields.” the sailor grunted, laughing. In the faint light that was cast onto the ship's deck the agents noticed a few dark shapes of sailors traipsing about on the deck. Someone flipped a lighter and lit a cigarette and the flash of orange fire was brilliant in the darkness. “Without going into the details, she's yours for however long you need it.” the sailor said with a committed proud nod, “And if you're going to run her aground or sink her at sea have the decency to do so close to home. I don't care about the boat but I sure do like the man on board.” “Thanks, we'll get them home safe.” Huang Du said, stepping onto the gangplank. Arban followed, warily peering down the side as the plank rocked and sagged under the weight of the two agents as they stepped from concrete quay over open water, and onto the creaking deck of a decades old ship. There was a stiff, awkward silence between the agents and the sailors as they came on board. The Chinese sailors, in drab stiff peasant's clothes leaned on the stumps that remained of the masts, or sat on the deck watching them, unsure whether to take them as a superior officer, or some other matter entirely. Arban, noticing this confusion set about asserting their position. “On your foot!” he shouted. Huang Du jumped, surprised his Mongolian companion could sound so much like a drill sergeant. The sailors responded immediately, and they shot up to their feet and went quickly to attention. Arban issued his orders: “I want this boat out on the water. Oh the helm, cut the lines. We'll detail our mission when we're on the water. Move out!” They responded to his assertiveness, and went immediately to their roles. Untying the ropes that tied them to the wharf they released the wooden hulk as down below the engine sputtered to life and groaned with a throat full of water as it propelled itself out into the open water. “I didn't know you could order sailors around.” Huang Du said in a low voice as the two walked down the deck. “I had to read the navy's officer's manual.” Arban said. His voice wavered uneasily as the boat rocked side-to-side as it sailed into waves. “Get sea sick?” “I don't know. I've only been on a boat once for five minutes. It made me dizzy.” “You're going to need to get used to it.” Huang Du assured him. As they left the river, and began slipping into the estuary proper on the lone dark waters on the South China Sea, a light was lit underneath the deck. With barely enough room to stand, the crew of the slowly chugging vessel came to stand around a small table the two agents were taking up. Huang Du stood leaning over a map, checking estimated routes any number of supply ships into Vietnam could be taking, a reference book lay open by his side. Arban, gripping a length of flexible conduit in the ceiling stood gently swaying from side to side, his normally dark sun-kissed face growing paler in the soft lamp light casting sharp shadows and highlights all throughout the lower deck. “Our mission here today, and for however long it will take us is a matter of utmost secrecy.” he said in a voice that echoed in the confined space. The crew gathered around tight supporting each other with arms over the next man's shoulders or leaning up against a wall with a foot planted against the thick wood timbers, “As such every man here is secluded to this boat until the task is done. I hope we will not be on the water for long, but it goes without saying there will not be any shore leave. We will be secluding ourselves in international waters, but more likely than not our mission will mean we will pass into the claimed waters of other states. As such, consider what we are doing as being very illegal. But this isn't unusual, you're now temporarily contracted agents of the Qingbao Ju. “There are some regular rules to mention going forward during the mission, and well after the mission. Namely first: we are your superior officers. By military establishment our authority holds precedent over other ranks as if one grade higher in international missions such as this. So we do not care if you're the most senior enlistee or officer about this boat today, because our rank beats yours. “Secondly, on completion of the mission and return to shore you are not to speak of your association with the Qingbao Ju for a minimum of six months. If by any chance the situation demands it the Bureau will contact your commanding officer with a notification to pass down to you explaining any possible extension to your term of silence. Until this is up you are not to officially admit to you having ever becoming an associate of ours, none to your family, friends, fellow sailors, or future officers. “On relation the third condition is that you are to not speak of the mission for a year after the fact, unless of course circumstances means we will be extending that term of silence. You will be notified if so. The Bureau will attempt to contact you directly if that is the case. Telling anyone about the mission is the last thing we want you doing. “Violation of these terms is subject to penalty, in military criminal court of national federal court on charges of high perjury by breaking this promise. You may be additionally charged with any number of offenses. At minimum you'll receive jail time. At maximum you will never be seeing the light of day again. “Do I make myself clear? Under present conditions there is no option to decline the mission. Unless you want to swim to shore now.” The room was silent, and slowly the sailors began nodding their heads and muttering, “Yes, comrade.” Arban nodded, “Thank you. Now if you don't mind, my partner will explain the mission we are on.” he said, letting go of the conduit and falling back into a roughly hewn chair. Taking his cue Huang Du looked up and rose, pocketing his pencil and compass. “The present condition of the Vietnamese conflict has attracted the attention of intelligence brass.” he began, “A new operator has appeared in northern Vietnam and is at work reshaping the current civil war. With no leads on who or what this actor is, let alone who might be supporting and supplying them it has been decided that increasingly direct methods of investigation are required to determine the source of support and the nature of the active situation in Vietnam. “We have conscripted you for that particular purpose.” Huang Du continued, clapping his hands together and bowing with a cheeky smile, “And we intend to carry this out as quietly and painlessly as possible. “The objectives set before us are simple: to identify the ports of entry into the territory held by the actor named Lady Trung and which ships are ferrying cargo and supplies into them. The main parameters on this mission have come down to primarily watching and following ships at a distance with the intent of identifying the ship and its country of origin. “Our emergency parameters do include engaging a ship in combat if we need to escape or otherwise seize and scuttle the ship. And while we believe we will mostly be observing unarmed civilian ships and there so far been minimal need to protect the ships between here and Sabah, which intelligence indicates has been active with piracy.” “But if the ships are being escorted that it's just as well to spot the flags they sail under.” Arban groaned. “Precisely, so we do not expect to go into anything hot. But if need be we have orders to meet and engage as far as the situation deems fit for our survival and the success of the mission. The primary intent of any avoidance maneuver should be to escape. We do not know what sort of escorts we will be dealing with. “But if for the sake of intelligence deems fit, we can authorize the boarding of a foreign vessel to search and seize what we can from its holds. For this our operational parameters outline the following: we should detain and neutralize as much of the crew as possible, we speak as little as possible – for this I will be discussing with you the battle plans for this situation on and off and repeatedly throughout the entirety of the mission so each of us can carry out our assigned duties as well as possible with as little guess work as possible – and finally to carry out our raid in fifteen minutes to half an hour so as to flee the scene before any support or intervention can be mobilized. We are not taking ships for the sake of taking ships, command unfortunately shot that down or we would have more boats or a bigger boat. Are we clear on the situation.” “Yes, comrade.” the crew responded. “Thank you.” Huang Du smiled, “I want a course set south. I'll be selecting one of you to begin a watch rotation. He will select a partner and every hour they will be selecting any inactive or sleeping crew member to keep watch on deck. I want this boat put on course, and the rest of us can get some sleep before morning.” [h2]Hong Kong[/h2] A hundred photographs hung on a clothes line strung between points on the wall, fastened up with small nails. Clipped between the jaws of wooden clothes pin they hung in the daylight revealing their contents in washed out, off-balance color. Walking between the developed pictures Lo Bai Shun peered into each, studying the content of the images and scribbling notes into a small notebook. The process the project took would simplify a fair portion of the building process of the cartoon. By replacing hand-drawn scenes with photographs – even stylized – a great deal of work could be lifted off the already limited faculties of a small decentralized team. Though true as he though, that parts of the film would have hand-drawn scenes, it had been decided that the bulk of the feature would use collected photographs. There were some criteria though to meet, and more than enough to pull from to make a heavy library of candidates. Among the photos were a mixed collection of shots from around Hong Kong. There was a specific theme to these images. Industrial shots, almost alien with pipes and metal sharply contrasted in hard shadows and highlights. Rocky landscapes of debris fields pushed to the side and out of the city, left to the overgrowth decades after the civil war. Anything the portrayed a sharp artificial nature. He picked out the ones he liked the best, looking at their backs for a scribbled number and noting that with some comments in his little book. Then there were shots from elsewhere, Hui Feng's contributions. He had brought from Shanghai very much the same sort of thing, but with the Shanghai touch. The great steel girders of iron bridges spanning the Huangpu River. Disheveled bricks husks at the center of city, and then the surreal architectural landscape in Shanghai's constantly rebuilding heart. Without any particular interest in any one type of scene Hui Feng had brought to Bai-Shun pictures shot through through the struts and poles of scaffolding, whether vertical or horizontal. Or the watery undulations of white-washed concrete balconies in interior or exterior space. He framed towering narrow windows in odd angles, or straight on. He had gone to the river shore, shooting the river-side as the water trickled on to the sea and into a bank of white fog, pebbles as large as boulders in the shot. Outside of his own criteria, Bai-Shun found himself compelled to move much of Hui Feng's contributions to their own area to consider for later. He was beginning to make what he felt was progress. Though it was only just the beginning. He knew – though he didn't dare think ahead to then yet – that these photographs would need to be blown up. He would likely need copies. Elements would need to be cut out to move between various foreground positions. A whole complex series of copying and cutting and even editing with a paint brush or marker would need to be done to build the scenery. It would take, and knowing it subconsciously they had at this point a rough year or two worth of work. A knock on the door shook his attention away. Stopping mid-way he turned and peered through the hanging pictures. Scratching the side of his head with his pencil he wondered who would be calling on him at this hour. He turned and looked out the window, it was mid-evening, the sky was already starting to change. Another knock on the door summoned him over, and he bowed and walked under the hangings and opened the door. Standing in the door way was a small, half-head shorter than he young woman. She smiled as she looked up at him. “Bai-Shun, you didn't forget. Did you?” she asked playfully, looking at the pencil and notebook in his hands. “Fo-” he started to say, then remembered. “No, no I did not, Han Shu.” she smiled knowingly and let herself in. She had a short measured step, a delicate frame with a strong posture. Scanning the room with her soft sharp eyes she looked over the many dozens of pictures Bai-Shun had been examining and reexamining. “If I didn't know better I'd say you're investigating a crime.” she laughed, and turned, “You didn't get so engrossed in this you nearly forgot again?” “No I-, Yes, I suppose I did.” Bai-Shun said with a sigh, realizing his mistake. “It's good I come by then.” she said with a sparkle in her eyes, “The show begins in an hour and it's all the way on Hong Kong Island. So we have to leave now.” she insisted. “Let me get a change of clothes.” he started, but Shu stopped him. “No, no, no! You're fine as you are.” she said, grabbing him by the shirt sleeve and pulling him out the door. “It's not like anyone will care. Let's go.” with a rush they disappeared from the apartment. The pencil and notepad falling to the ground as the door shut with a thump after. Han Shu slowed down, giving relief to Bai-Shun who was able to catch up without threat of having his clothes torn. Straightening the breast of his buttoned shirt he said, “You know I haven't eaten yet.” “I'm sure they'll have something to eat there. Besides, we can catch something to eat after.” she announced as they walked from the apartment. A short ways down the long sandy dirt road that lead up to the apartment block they stopped at a motorbike park along the road side. Two helmets were fastened to the side, and Shu offered Bai-Shun one. “Will you drive?” she asked. “It's been a while.” he said, taking the helmet. “Well it wouldn't look right for a man to drive his girl around.” she said, teasing him. “But perhaps you need to get a bike too. It would so much better than having to take the trolley all the time.” Bai-Shun grumbled, taking the helmet. “Far better than trying to bring a car into the city.” she admitted. He couldn't fault Shu on that. Strapping the helmet down he mounted the bike and started the engine. It rumbled weakly at first but then soon sputtered to life. Han Shu straddled the seat just behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. With a sputter the two drove down the roads. Traffic late in the evening was far less extreme as mid-day. With the farmers withdrawn back to the New Territories, the bulk of the errands done the roads were not so congested by wagon carts and people. There was a almost serene calm to it, driving along the road, what traffic was out widely spaced. For Bai-Shun, he could think of no other time better than to actually drive on the road. It had been five, perhaps seven years he had driven anything himself. But trying that for regular work turned out to be too stressful for him, his palms would go cold, his heart beat fast, and soon he would be finding somewhere to pull over and walk the rest of the way and avoid the sense of a lack of control in heavy traffic, he had escape on foot. But here and now was when he could say he had that. He didn't feel shut in by wagons and trailers and large trucks. No one's exhaust was backing up and popping with a loud bang. Stopping at an intersection to let a small group of pedestrians cross Han Shu leaned over his shoulder, “Don't you want a dog?” she asked, pointing to a old woman walking a medium sized dog of undetermined breed across the street, “My dad used to have a dog like that. He had a white spot on his face.” Bai-Shun didn't reply immediately. As the crossing cleared he drove on. The motor of the bike starting to echo off of the rising facades of inner city apartments. Store-fronts and galleries started to become more of a feature of these street-level buildings. More often at street corners or mid-way between the bright-red postal boxes of Hong Kong as set up by the British authority began making a sight. At the next intersection they reached he responded to the dog question: “I don't think I have any room.” he answered. “Oh sure you do. For a small one. You're so lonely in your apartment. I can't be there all the time.” she said. Her words trailing off playfully at the final sentence. The docks of Kowloon though were as full of life as at any moment of the day. As the evening darkened the lights in the port were flashing on as they drove by, illuminating the piers where ships from northern China were coming in, or where ships from the Chinese south were on their way north. Making side-way glances at the docks though, Bai-Shun couldn't help but feel much the same emptiness for the many piers that were empty at the docks, as fleeting dark glimpses were had between warehouses and fencing. But a better view of the piers were had as they came on the bridge between Kowloon and Hong Kong island. Straight head, illuminated by the stalwart illumination of state buildings, and the bustling cosmopolitan heart of the foreign ideological refugee community the dark form of Victoria Peak rose ahead. Along the sides behind the guardwalls and under the bridge the inky black waters of the South China sea loomed with its half-empty industrial docks, and full piers of small fishing boats. The length of the bridge and its great sweeping overhead supports were illuminated in the soft blue-green glow of artificial light as black sedans rolled by in either direction. Driving down the long ramp onto the island and things decidedly changed. The structures and the apartments looked decidedly older, decidedly more European than across the channel between them and the New Territories. The high rises were shorter and there were small gardens or park places off to the side. Driving along a coastal road they meandered along the north end of the island passed or through small coastal parks and plazas. Turning to drive into the island though the urbanscape began to change. From open coastal roads the old buildings began to crowd in on the street more, the thoroughfare narrowing as they passed cars parked along the side. Along the side of the road, they cut into an alley. The engine echoing louder now against the walls Bai-Shun slowed to an idle. The alley opened up to a courtyard space filled with motorbikes and bicycles. Lanterns strewn across on heavy chords threw a warm and bright light on the courtyard, turning early urban night into a bedazzling day complete with streamers and the loud hopeful conversation of dozens of couples and theater-going groups. The couple got off their bike and headed towards a door set into a niche covered in ceramic tile. Around the door stood smoking and waiting mixed groups. Bai-Shun recognized the American self-exiles, the British and Australian veterans and their Asian wives, and volunteers from all over who found themselves unable to go home, or uninvited. They communities had begun to mingle here in Hong Kong. Among the likes of Bai-Shun, it was believed that what was here in Hong Kong was the germinating seed in its earliest stages of growth of a new cosmopolitan culture in the twentieth century. As the rest of the world seemed to turn away from diverse communities, the scattered seeds spread by such reactionary turning found themselves by some mystery in southern China. The soil perhaps was ripe for it, as not far away were the remnants of other European colonies, Macau just an hour or two away being one of them. Inside the décor was far different. The lighting was subdued to a dull orange glow, and the dim lanterns and banners and sheets that decorated the furniture and wall were – unlike the outside – the only decorations. Framed photographs and potted plants had found themselves inside. A soft blue rug covered a wooden floor and a desk with a European table clock and bright desk lamp dominated a far corner. Leaning against it a thin fiery red-headed Englishman leaned against it, watching the new comers with a warm welcoming smile. Approaching him, Han Shu presented the tickets she produced from a small undecorated purse. “Mistress Shu, it's a pleasure to see you.” the man said with an accent. He spoke familiarly with the young woman. “Who is this?” he asked, looking to Bai-Shun. The Anglo had to stand a good four inches over Bai-Shun, and he looked down slightly at him. “He's Lo Bai Shun.” she said, “The date I said I'd bring along.” “That's wonderful.” the man at the desk said with a smile, “Well we'll be beginning in a few minutes. You can head on down as soon as you like. We have beer and dumpling by the door, free to however much you can eat or drink.” “Thanks, but you know me: I don't drink. There any tea?” she asked. “There is.” the deskman said, bowing. “Great, thank you!” Han Shu cheered, “Tell Mang Dak I said hello!” she nearly shouted as she pulled her boyfriend to another door, and down a narrow flight of stairs. “Why aren't you present?” Han Shu asked as they descended the stairs. “Excuse me?” Lo Bai Shun asked. “Present, why aren't you assertive. You could have spoken with Mr. Hamlen some.” “Who?” he asked “Mark Hamlen, the man who took my tickets. He's a good friend of my friend, he's a nice guy.” “I don't know him.” Lo Bai Shun responded as they hit the bottom flight of stairs. Stopping before they went through the door Han Shu turned to him: “Mark Hamlen. His parents were born in London but moved to Hong Kong in the 1900's. He was born and raised here. He fought for our side. He's a veteran of the civil war. He likes to be called Sergeant Major, it makes him laugh.” “Thanks, but I still don't know who he is.” he answered her. She sighed, and rolling here eyes opened the door as a small group were headed down after them. “I think it would be really good for you.” she insisted, leading him through, “I know you get anxious, you're a little cold. But if you need to talk to someone I think it'd be nice to have someone not just Guangzhou. I realize you need that a little now and then, I can't help. But I know some friends who can.” Lo Bai Shun sighed heavily, and averting his gaze from the pleading expression of his date. She sighed softly, and reached out and gently brushed the breast of his shirt. “I'm sorry.” she apologized. “Let's find a seat then.” he said quietly. The theater room was a basement. But the cold concrete and brick had been hidden behind rugs hung up on the wall. The floor had also been dug out and re-coated as well, deepening the room by a good two or three feet to make it cozier. Single strands of light bulbs hung down, shrouded with beaten and beaded lampshades and along the wall next to the door was a table laden with metal buckets of bottles of beer, brandy, and wine. Nearby a man stood by looking after gas stoves keeping warm spreads of stuffed clam and baskets of dumplings, and at least one large coffee pot where by the ten or thirteen tea bag tags sticking out from the lid was full of tea kept warm. “You find a seat and I'll get something to eat.” Han Shu said, turning Lo Bai Shun onto the rest of the room. The rest of it was inhabited by small dining tables, big enough for two but at times three or four people had been crammed in on one. They all encircled in a semi-circle a stage, which was a simply wooden platform with a minimal number of pre-positioned props. He found himself a seat at the edge, nearest the door and took the table for himself and Shu's. She came over soon enough with a couple small cups of tea balanced on a plate of dumplings to share. The lights in the room dimmed soon enough, and improvised orchestra lights at the rough stage's edge turned on and the show began. It was a comedy, and for Lo Bai Hun he did not find it very funny. Setting itself during the war it followed a group of peasants who fought a guerrilla resistance against the Japanese. But instead of using guns and bombs they used wit and guille to bamboozle and trick the Japanese. He could not fault them for the effort, after all Han Shu loved it. But he could not bring himself to find it so funny. Less so a joke where a disgraced Japanese officer is made to perform sepuku, but fails because he is too afraid.