2003
The entirety of the Pacific is laid out before me, in tables and charts and invoices. The lifeblood of half the world flows across that expansive ocean, my own cargo a miniscule fraction of a percentile of the amount that even now crawls its way across the seas. It skirts the line between legal and illegal, my books evenly split between legitimate trade and illegal smuggling, the two revenue streams mutually dependant on each other.
A single container vessel carries shipments of rubber from New Siam, steaming west for the Horn of Africa, to be turned into piping in German factories. But the ship will not sail straight for the Horn. Hidden in and amongst the cargo are containers full of illegal arms and ammunition, either manufactured in New Siam or imported in from elsewhere.
Those weapons are bound to the city state of Quelimane, on the east coast of what was once Mozambique, where they will be delivered to the warlord who rules that city, a powerful Parahuman made all the more so by the comparatively modern container port her city-state possesses. Whether she sells the weapons on to her fellow warlords or keeps them for her personal army is of little consequence to me. All that matters are the blood diamonds she will hand over to my people on the vessel; diamonds that will sell for a small fortune on the European black markets.
In that way, I have sustained my Triad. My people, the few that still remain, are scattered across the oceans, or manning the offices of shipping companies in cities around the Pacific and the Indian Ocean. In Ho Chi Minh city, Laem Chabang, Singapore, Jakarta, Busan, Vladivostok, Magadan and here, in Sydney. But none of them are home.
I have spread my Triad thin on the ground, holding dominion only over the waves. It has kept us afloat in the five years since our desperate flight from Hong Kong, but only barely. Where once we were the masters of our own fate, now we are nothing more than facilitators for the safe passage of others goods. Our takings are large, until you count the costs of the bribes we must pay to port authorities, the cut we owe to the local powers we are too dispersed to overcome. Even here in Sydney, with the largest concentration of our Parahumans, we are dependent on the grace of a local Yakuza clan who oh-so-kindly allow us to operate within their territory.
What little remains of our funds are reinvested in future ventures, leaving very little to be split between the dozens of members and whatever family they were able to bring with them in our desperate flight, as Kowloon was set aflame and the Yangban stormed through the streets of the city like the conquering army they undeniably were, rounding up Parahumans and crushing any who threatened the Chinese Union-Imperial’s newfound hegemony.
Where once I dreamt of expansion, now my days are filled with the desperate struggle to keep my Triad afloat. To maintain the already-fragile balance between my parahumans and humans; the young blood and the old guard. And every year I grow older, my bones grow wearier, and my grip on the Triad seems to slip further and further from my fingers.
A knock on the door shakes me out of my morose thoughts, and I set the papers down, leaning back in my chair as my Triad’s foremost enforcer steps into my office, his face hidden beneath a snarling red mask. To be a human in charge of parahumans is a strange thing, and I doubt I would have been able to hold my position for so long were it not for the split-second decision to take in an orphaned teenager struggling to find his place in the world. In the six years since, the Red Dragon has saved me from death more times than I can remember.
When my body finally fails me, he will take my place.
“There’s an American waiting outside, sir,” he says, his Cantonese clipped and professional.
“An American?”
“He’s wearing a suit and arrived in an armoured SUV, accompanied by two armed guards.”
I frown, steepling my fingers and leaning forwards in concentration. A potential client, then. Wealthy, or just paranoid, and knowledgeable, to come direct to me rather than acting through an intermediary.
Briefly, I consider the possibility that this is some elaborate assassination attempt, before dismissing it. The Sydney Yakuza are too busy profiting from us, the Polynesian Crew wouldn’t be this subtle and the Australian Guard wouldn’t be this blatant. The other powers in this city are too distant or disinterested to notice us.
“What does he want?”
“Apparently, he has a business opportunity he wishes to discuss. He says he will only talk to you, sir.”
With one hand supporting my chin and another drumming out a rhythm on my desk, I weigh up the possible risks and benefits, before coming to a decision.
“Send him up. With one of his guards. Put the other guard and the driver, if he has one, in the staff lounge with a cup of tea… or coffee if you can find it.”
We mustn’t forget out manners, after all, and separating the guards from their getaway vehicle might come in handy if this does turn out to be a trap.
The Red Dragon leans out the doorway, directing a clipped burst of Cantonese at my secretary before shutting the door and moving to stand behind me. On the way, he pauses, his hand halfway to his face.
“Mask on or off?”
It’s a fair question. I see little purpose in protecting a parahuman’s anonymity for its own sake – no such concessions would be offered to me or any of my unpowered men, after all – but there is a purpose in hiding which members of my organisation are powered and which aren’t. However, in this case, a show of strength would be preferable to a hidden dagger.
“Mask on.”
He nods in acknowledgement, before getting into position behind me, with his hands clasped behind his back.
Mere moments later, another knock on the door heralds the arrival of my secretary, who I have known since she was four years old. She steps aside, ushering in a well-dressed man who might be in his mid to late thirties, wearing a tailored tan suit, and a bodyguard in a looser-fitting suit that no doubt conceals a pistol.
My secretary offers them refreshments, before disappearing to fetch a coffee for the man and a pot of tea for myself. I gesture for the man to sit, leaning back in my chair and looking into his eyes as I try to assess his measure. He’s confident, barely even glancing at the intimidating parahuman behind me. He could be like me, but he seems too young for that sort of easy confidence, and too old for the bravado of youth. More likely, he’s a parahuman himself.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lo,” he begins, his accent smooth and easy-going. “I have been watching your organisation with great interest.”
“Then you have me at a disadvantage,” I reply. “You know of my business, but I do not know yours.”
“Black Rod,” he says by way of introduction, leaning over to shake my hand in an overly enthusiastic and distinctly American gesture.
“A parahuman without a mask?” I ask with a wry grin.
“A gesture of good faith,” he answers. “After all; you aren’t wearing one.”
“Quite.”
“You could, you know,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “It’s something I’ve been wondering about. Why not wear a mask? If nothing else, there’s an advantage in making people think you have a power.”
“I already have power,” I reply with a frown, “and I do not see my humanity as a weakness to be hidden away. Perhaps I am a relic, but I am a relic of a time in which leadership was dependent on more than just the ability to shoot fire from my fingertips.”
“And I respect you for it. Like I said, I’ve been looking into your operation. It’s very well organised, very smooth, but it isn’t as profitable as it could be, is it?”
“And you’re here to change that?”
“I’m the head of the Seattle Elite,” he answers, and I can’t help the wince of sympathy that flicks across my features. The period immediately after a Leviathan attack is usually marked by an uptick in trade, as shipping companies desperately work to move their stock in the narrow window of guaranteed safety that follows, but it always comes at a cost. A drowned city, somewhere in the world.
“You have my condolences.”
“I’d rather have your support,” he interjects, politely. “If you cut your operations down to a minimum, you could put a dozen Capes in Seattle by the end of the week.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Resources have stopped flowing into Seattle. The Protectorate are on a war footing over this business in Switzerland. They’re convinced the Simurgh is a third Endbringer, and even if she isn’t then the damage she’s already caused makes Seattle’s troubles look paltry. The Seattle Protectorate are down to a skeleton crew, and they’re far too busy dealing with whatever’s crawling out of Lynnwood.”
“Tragic, I’m sure,” I interrupt. “But I have my own worries, my own troubles.”
“Of course you do. We’ve looked into your finances” – I suppress a scowl at his blatant violation of our secrets – “and we know you’re barely staying afloat. A lot of money disappearing into pay-outs to local gangs, bribes for anyone and everyone. What you need is territory of your own, with access to a port you control.”
“Territory in Seattle.”
“I like Sydney,” he says, leaning back in his seat and looking around my office like he can see past the weathered walls to the metropolis beyond. “I like what it represents, and that goes double now that I know what it’s like to stand in the ruins of a drowned city. More than anywhere else in the world, Sydney took what Leviathan did to it and bounced back stronger.”
I say nothing, waiting for him to reach the crux of his argument.
“Seattle isn’t as bad as Sydney was, but the money’s dried up. The United States doesn’t believe Seattle can be saved. The Elite believes differently – I believe differently – so we’re pouring resources into Seattle, to rebuild everything Leviathan broke and reshape the city in our image. We’re going to control every part of the city, and that means the gangs.”
“So, you want us to go in and stabilise the situation?”
He nods. “Exactly. Crush the other groups who’re trying to capitalise on the situation, and you can have their territory for yourself. All we ask is that you leave our interests alone, and you can run your territory as you see fit. No cut to us, no restrictions on your activities so long as they don’t draw too much heat, and we’ll even help you infiltrate the ports and bring your smuggling business to the US market.”
I lean back in my seat, thinking the matter over. It smacks of desperation, to my mind. The terms are simply too favourable. Leviathan has cast his organisation into the ocean, and he’s reaching for any flotsam he can find to stay afloat.
There is, however, one matter that needs to be clarified.
“You are not the head of the Seattle Elite. If you were, you would not be here.”
From the way he stiffens, and his bodyguard’s hand drifts unconsciously towards his pistol, I know I have judged him correctly.
And yet, that doesn’t mean the terms aren’t acceptable. They represent a chance to end this miserable state of affairs and rebuild my Triad into a force worthy of the name. Above all, territory represents security for myself, my people, and the people who are dependent on them.
“Your offer sounds acceptable,” I speak, as my secretary re-enters the room with a cup of coffee and a pot of tea on a fine wooden tray, “but we must discuss the details before I can commit to any agreement. And, when I arrive in Seattle, I want to meet the man in charge and gain his measure for myself.”
■
I have never seen devastation on this scale before. Not even my last days in Hong Kong can compare to the sheer scale of the carnage that Leviathan managed to wreak on this city.
From my position on the port wing of the bridge, I can see the city spread out before me in a panoramic view. To my left, past the stern of the Panamax container ship, an immense gateway lies sundered and shattered, its remains hastily swept aside to create a clear passage for ships. The sea walls around the city itself have fared even worse; collapsed like so much sand in the face of the tide.
To my right, the ship is like a solid wall of multicoloured blocks. Five thousand shipping containers filled to bursting with relief supplies, non-perishable food, specialised equipment, tents, medicine and anything else that might aid in relief efforts. It’s a gift, to see us safely into the city, and a smokescreen for the unusually large crew and the firearms hidden in sacks of rice.
All around our vessel, the waters are filled with dozens of smaller boats vying for space, from minuscule dinghies to a slab-sided hospital ship and even a Navy frigate watching over the channel. The city itself is no less chaotic, with distant gunfire echoing across the waves as flying Parahumans dart in and out of what my map identifies as Lynnwood, fighting a desperate battle against some unseen enemy on the flooded streets below.
We pass it as quickly as possible, ushered forwards by the flashing lights of the police launches escorting us through the channel. Ours is the first large ship to enter Puget Sound since Leviathan, and the escort is necessary to avoid the shallows created by debris lurking just below the surface. The Coast Guard are already working to create clear lanes of buoys to guide in traffic, but it’s slow work and these supplies are needed now.
The further down the coastline we go, the less the city seems to have been affected by Leviathan. The spires of downtown Seattle rise above their intact sea walls like a defiant castle, standing firm against the horrors of the world in spite of their battered frames and shattered windows.
The gateway to Elliot Bay falls open before us, and we pass through the intact sea wall accompanied by cheers from the crowds who’ve turned out to see us enter the city, as the smaller vessels around us turn their hoses to the midday sky, creating rainbow-like arcs of water that glitter beneath the sun’s light. There are safer ports we could have used further down the coast, and railway lines to deliver our cargo to the city, but this is as much about the spectacle as it is about the relief we bring.
This donation has been kindly funded by one of the Elite’s shell companies, on the advice of an Elite-backed politician, and by bringing it into the city itself we advance their prestige.
The docking itself goes off without a hitch, and soon enough our cargo is being steadily unloaded by the port’s cranes, while the ship’s captain is shaking hands with the mayor of Seattle in a pre-planned press conference. I remain on board – as do most of my Triad – until the political business has ended, but while the business of unloading the ship and distributing the supplies is still very much ongoing.
The Elite have a car waiting for me at the port, as well as a trio of stout trucks for my men. It delivers me through the nearly-empty city streets, to the base of a single skyscraper among many, damaged but still looking solid enough. It still has power, enough for the lift that takes me up to the thirtieth floor. The Red Dragon is my constant shadow, taking in his surroundings with professional detachment and ready to turn on our escort without the slightest hesitation.
When the lift doors open up, it’s to an office that was obviously abandoned in a hurry. Chairs are scattered around the room, cubicle walls have fallen down and papers and documents have been scattered across the floor – a problem made even worse by the steady breeze blowing in through the shattered windows.
A space has been cleared in the debris, right before one of the few intact panes of glass, and two armchairs have been set down, looking out over the desolate landscape north of the city centre. A pot of tea has been set on an end table between the two armchairs, with two porcelain cups on ornate saucers.
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I take the empty seat, and am momentarily taken aback to see myself sitting opposite an immaculately-kept woman in her forties, dressed in a deep green tailored suit.
“Mr Lo,” she begins. “Welcome to Seattle.” A wry grin plays across her face as she takes a drink from her teacup. “I am the man in charge.”
I chuckle to myself, taking a sip of my own to compose my response – and being mildly surprised at the drink’s quality.
“You must forgive me. I am quite aware that I am a relic of an older time.”
Although, the leader of the Seattle Elite might be the oldest parahuman I have ever met. Perhaps she is a relic of sorts, as well.
She waves me off, her expression making it clear that no offence was taken.
There’s another mystery; an old accent that hasn’t quite managed to disappear beneath her professional American tone.
“It seems we learned the same English.”
Her smile this time is almost wistful.
“Like you, my home is a long way away. But I have built a new home for myself in Seattle, and I hope you can too.”
“It seems your new home has taken a battering.”
“We’ve come off better than others.” She turns to look out of the window, out across the flooded streets and the forest of white refugee tents. “But drastic action is required to make this anything more than a catastrophe. It’s a nightmarish balancing act.”
“Then I am sure the supplies I have brought will come as a welcome relief.”
She chuckles to herself, setting her teacup back in its saucer.
“If it were as simple as flooding the city with supplies, Seattle would have already recovered. The problem, as always, is people. Just this morning, for example, I learned that prostitution rings have grown up around several of the aid camps in the flooded zones. It’s only natural – there are people in this city who saw their entire lives swept away, and who would do anything to claw it back – but if it gets out that charity workers, emergency service personnel and federal officials are paying homeless refugees for sex it could sink the relief effort overnight.”
She’s sitting perfectly poised, but from the minute twitch of her hand muscle I can tell she’s furious.
“So I’m leveraging every contact I have to push an emergency relief bill through the state legislature, with a buried provision that will decriminalise prostitution within a designated area. Then I’ll set up a makeshift red light district, to try and add even the most basic air of legitimacy to the business. All because people are apparently incapable of keeping it in their trousers.”
I let out a low chuckle, before setting my own cup down and fixing her with a serious expression.
“And where does the Triad fit into your master plan?”
“As valued allies. I have most of South Seattle’s gangs under my thumb, thanks to strategic offers and interventions, but I lack the manpower to secure the north. I could bring in more people from Portland or Vancouver, but my rivals in the Elite would capitalise on that. Seattle was the crown jewel of my domain; now that it’s fractured, they’re circling me like sharks.”
I can see from here that the north is far from the choicest prize in the city. It was the hardest hit by Leviathan, and so the least valuable at present. That might be the point, come to think of it. The ‘man in charge’ brought me up here and showed me the north in all its disrepair, rather than trying to bury reality behind honeyed words and a plush office.
“Who holds the north at present?”
“The Bratva, the Yakuza and an American gang who were driven out of Montana. They all arrived immediately after Leviathan, and they’ve been feuding for control of the local gangs ever since. I don’t care how you deal with them, so long as you keep things quiet until the relief efforts have finished. No attacking convoys, steer clear of the PRT and the National Guard, and finally no flashy stunts that make it on the evening news. Apart from that, you have carte blanche to do as you please. Do we have an understanding?”
“We do,” I reply as I rise from my seat. “I will marshal my men and get the measure of the ground. I trust I can rely on your organisation for information and a staging point?”
She nods in affirmation.
“Then I will proceed. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I am sure this is the start of a lengthy and fruitful alliance.”
As I turn to leave she rises from her seat and steps over to the window. The last thing I see as the lift doors slide shut is her figure silhouetted against the clear blue sky, her hands clasped behind her back as she looks down on her city in silent contemplation.
■
It used to be a church. Perhaps it will be again, in time. It’s on the very edge of the zone the government has deemed unsalvageable, and a particularly devout congregation might be able to successfully lobby the government to change their mind and shift the borders slightly. For now, however, it is nothing more than an empty hall, with rows of pews forming most of a semicircle around an altar.
For now, it serves our purposes.
A new shrine has been placed atop the water-stained altar cloth, carrying a small statue of a stern-faced Guan Yu, the Saint of War, with a halberd held in his left hand. This deep into the flooded zones, there is no electricity to light our way. Instead, a collection of battery powered lamps has created a kind of half-light that only highlights the glow of the burning incense, creating an intimate and religious atmosphere.
The pews are filled with members of the triad, both current and… potential. The Bratva, the Yakuza and the Magisters have all been broken, their grip on this city shattered. Some of their members have fled, others were killed in the fighting, but the remainder are here.
I could bring the rest of my Triad to Seattle, and within a few years we would have returned to some semblance of our old strength. But that would take too long, and the Elite would grow far faster than us. If we want to survive – to thrive – in this brave new world, we must adapt to it.
This ceremony… it is a relic of a time that no longer exists, a time that was ending even before the first parahumans shattered the established world order. The Triads were drifting slowly towards white-collar crime, and a formal ceremony such as this simply drew unwanted attention.
But its time has come again. If the Triad are to survive, we must expand, and if we are to expand without losing sight of who we are, we must pass our traditions onto the next generation.
The Christian faith believes strongly in the concept of baptism. That a person can undergo a rite and emerge a new man, with all their past sins and allegiances washed away.
This initiation serves the same purpose. Whatever flag they owed loyalty to before, whatever tongue they may speak and whatever faith they may worship, the defeated remnants of my enemies will see the stain of their defeat washed away, and they will leave this building as part of the Triad.
The first to rise is Rusalka, the most senior surviving Bratva Cape, with her left arm held up in a sling and a thick cast. She walks down the aisle with her head still held high, showing the defiant pride of a defeated but unbroken prisoner as she steps forward.
I am sitting on the foremost pew, watching the Triad’s Incense Master as he stands before the altar with a bowl of rice wine in his hands. He’s even older than I am, but he hasn’t yet let his ailing body interfere with his duties. It’s an admirable quality, and one I hope to possess as my body continues to wither and fail.
Rusalka stops before the Incense Master, dwarfing the shorter man, and waits patiently, her shoulders straight. She is the picture of elegance and obedience, and so shows more strength than if she had ranted and raved against some perceived insult.
“Stretch forth the middle finger of your left hand, which I shall prick, so that a few drops of blood may fall into the bowl held by the master,” the Triad’s senior administrator says, guiding her through the steps of the ritual as he has guided all our new initiates up to this point.
Rusalka leans forwards, shifting her slinged arm a little to get her finger over the bowl. Once her blood has been spilled, she steps aside as a dozen other initiates go through the same process. They aren’t the only survivors, of course, just the parahumans and senior leadership of the defeated gangs. They will hold the rank and file in line, and the promise of further initiations can be used as an incentive.
“In this manner,” the administrator continues, once all the blood has been spilled, “our ancient fathers, the five monks of the Shaolin monastery, pledged themselves by an oath of eternal brotherhood.”
He looks up and down the line of new initiates, pausing to allow his words to sink in.
“You, my brothers and sisters, as a sign of your obedience and sincerity, will now in turn drink of the liquid contained in this vessel and thereby become blood brothers of all the members of our order. As you drink, bear in mind the solemn oaths you are therefore ratifying.”
It is, perhaps, the first time this ceremony has been performed in English, but I know that is simply the first of many changes we will need to make if we are to thrive in this new land. We will bend, to ensure we do not break.
“Henceforth, the Hung society is to you as Father and Mother. Its friends are your friends, its foes your foes. Where the brotherhood leads, you must follow, and from you absolute obedience to the orders of its duly appointed officers is demanded.”
With that, the Incense Master and the administrator both take a sip from the bowl, before passing it down the line of new initiates. Each of them drinks, some with more eagerness than others. Besides me, I know the Red Dragon is making a mental note of each hesitation or moment of doubt. We are building something strong, something that will last, but to do that we must ensure its foundations are free from fault.
The bowl reaches Rusalka at the end of the line. She drinks it without hesitation, before handing it to me with a deferential nod. I return the gesture and take my own sip, stamping down any visible reaction to the twinge that shoots through my arm as I lift the bowl up to my mouth.
■
2010
As the meeting winds down, and the participants start to make their way back to their duties, I remain seated to deal with the last few petitioners. My subordinates have managed to turn this disused Endbringer shelter into a hall worthy of the Triad’s prestige, but it’s still just a pale shadow of the prestigious headquarters we occupied in the covered market.
Unfortunately, that location was so richly furnished that we used it whenever we hosted guests from the Elite. To use it now would be to invite a firebombing. Instead, this fortress of concrete and steel – located beneath a civilian structure the Elite, or the Round Table, would hesitate before attacking – provides an adequate headquarters for the Triad at war.
As the last petitioner leaves satisfied with my answer, I feel the weight of the world come creeping back to press down on my shoulders. It’s becoming harder and harder to keep my composure in these sorts of long meetings, but without me they would quickly dissolve into infighting. I am not essential for the Triad’s survival, but I am essential for its continued harmony.
I try to stand, managing to rock myself forwards but unable to carry that movement on, until I feel a hand grasp my arm as the Red Dragon steps in to help me to my feet. Of all the members of the Triad, he alone is fully aware of the extent of my frailty. That is why I don’t try to hide the grateful look on my face, even as I shrug off his arm.
I might not be able to rise unaided, but I can still stand.
My temporary apartment used to be a small, sectioned-off area of the medical wing for use during triage whenever a patient has no chance of survival. The bitter irony of it is not lost on me, but most of the rooms here are too large to be comfortable.
A large amount of effort has been spent making it feel homely, with a comfortable armchair next to a heater and rich rugs completely covering the bare concrete floor, but I still miss my quiet apartment with its view over the sea wall. I sink deeply into the armchair, flick on my reading light and open up my copy of The Great Gatsby, to read about another man from a bygone age who’s stayed well beyond his time.
“I think I’m done for the night,” I say to the Dragon. “Thank you, once again.”
Solitary man that he is, he doesn’t say anything in response, simply nodding and leaving the room.
The moment the door closes, Mr Jiang steps out of the shadows.
I sigh, putting my bookmark back in its place and setting the text down before turning to look at him.
“Was there some business that wasn’t covered in the meeting?” I ask in clipped Cantonese.
“I simply wish to remind you of the importance of this endeavour,” he replies, his Mandarin formal and flawless. “The future of your Triad depends on its success.”
“There might not be a future, thanks to you.” I reply, with more than a hint of bitterness. There’s no point in being polite with the man who holds my heart in his hands.
“Nonsense,” he replies with a laugh. “You can overcome the Seattle Elite, you just have to be prepared to take more risks.”
I frown, my head drooping as the weight of the world becomes all that heavier.
“Don’t lose hope on me now, old man.” The agent drops to one knee, putting a hand on my shoulder in a parody of comfort.
“After all” – he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up the gallery – “you have something to fight for.”
He flicks through a series of images, each showing a woman in her early twenties. In one photo, she’s painting on an easel. In another, she’s using a computer program to give shape to a planned sculpture.
“Your granddaughter is doing very well for herself. The Imperial Family has always appreciated the cultural virtues of our nation, even as the Union embodies our relentless industry. Artists that show great promise are taken under the Family’s wing, to create great works that can enlighten the soul of the nation.”
And they can be crushed beneath that wing just as easily.
He closes the phone, snatching my granddaughter away from me, and rises to his feet. He looks down at me, all his false sympathy replaced by contempt.
“You know, I realised something about you yesterday. Your whole life, you have always taken the middle path. You’ve done exactly what you needed to do to preserve your Triad. No more, no less.”
He smiles.
“It’s what got you into this situation. If you had loved your daughter a little more, you would have taken her with you when you fled Hong Kong, illegitimate or not. If you had loved her a little less, then threatening your granddaughter’s life becomes pointless. Either way, I would have no power over you.”
I sit there in silence as he walks over to the doorway, tears streaming down my face.
“I know you don’t think much of us, but a Parahuman wouldn’t have made that mistake. The world is a lot more dynamic than it once was, and if you don’t force your way through the currents you’ll find yourself swept away with all the other relics of a world that no longer exists.”