When Totems Fall

by Wayne C. Stewart

  "So," he asked, threat and accusation equally present in his tone. "What exactly may I tell them?"

  Silence prevailed in the room, the blatant dismissal of cultural protocol shocking all around the table.

  Junjie moved on positively, another series of data and timelines playing out on the LED wall.

  He was bluffing.

  Outwardly he appeared confident and polished. His inner-bearing, however, was anything but that. In fact, the longer he reported on their successes, the more Junjie became conflicted and confused.

  Not satisfied, and cutting in before the young man was through, Dhe pressed the inquisition further still, to a point of decision and declaration.

  "May we count on your full commitment?"

  Leaning in, closer still.

  "Are the systems operational?"

  Dhe's question stayed there, leaving an awkward pause between the two men. The moment was Junjie's to seize or to squander, the very reason he had been invited into the room. Prolonging his reply by another few seconds, he did something both familiar and foreign to his people.

  He prayed; silently, quickly. It was time to choose.

  One last plusses and minuses exercise.

  They'd met or exceeded every obligation. The contract fostered a far quicker ascendancy than even their loftiest projections. It was an opportunity thousands of other CEOs wouldn't hesitate to accept, not for a single second.

  Still, nagging at his mind, what he could not ignore, was the unanswered question of what might happen once the tech was handed over to the government. Troubling him deeply was this: it was likely they had done too good of a job, creating something more potent than was for anyone's good. In his professional opinion the code being written was more appropriate to outcomes other than those stated in the agreement. Yes, for all the good it brought him there were things here that still made no sense. He surmised the worst. Pile on top of this the sudden removal of valued men and women and the hasty installation of their handpicked replacements, chosen by nothing less than high-level authorities in Beijing, and the whole thing took on a weight of uncertainty that was terribly disconcerting.

  Maybe I should walk away, make some mistakes, be forced to hand over the work to someone else.

  Zang had entertained these thoughts more than once over the last few months. It would not be that simple. Dislodging Dawn Star from her contractual obligations would prove highly impractical at this point. The move would also be quite difficult to explain.

  Time was up.

  Junjie's mouth opened, his next words formalizing an irreversible decision.

  "My firm pledges itself in every way. We are on track for full implementation in the next twenty-four hours."

  The statement sounded far more convincing in the room than how it landed in his heart. Nonetheless, the deed was done. They would move forward.

  Dhe backed off, nodding triumphantly, signaling they were finished here. The other men stood in unison. Suit coat buttons were refastened and notebooks gathered.

  Junjie retrieved his materials, bowed, and then exited the room. His footsteps, far too loud through hallways built to hold secrets, left him wondering anew: had he done the right thing, the best thing. With the door shut behind him the men talked. Dhe spoke first.

  "He was not so credible this time. I believe we may have to watch him more closely. We have come too far to allow his weakness to jeopardize the good of the whole."

  He was so quick to play the fake patriotism card.

  "And need I remind you... the good of the whole is why we are doing this."

  General Chien Wie stared back, unflinching in the face of the stinging rebuke. He knew enough about Dhe to obey him but he would not honor the man. In his long career he'd stood beside many of the same ilk, hiding naked ambition behind a false love of country. His next words came slowly but confidently.

  "There are sufficient measures in place. The young businessman will finish what he has started."

  "And then?"

  "And then he will not be any more trouble, or any more use... to us."

  Dhe turned toward the door, expressing nothing—neither acknowledgment nor disagreement—and simply left.

  SEVEN

  How foolish, Junjie thought to himself. Did he actually believe being forced to decide, to move forward, would bring him peace? That stepping over the line would cure him of his anguish? No, the meeting had only made things worse

  Spinning his leather executive chair around and then sitting down heavily, Junjie peered outward again into the thick cloud-cover.

  Perfect.

  The irony was not lost on the young executive. The weight he bore was real. The fact someone like himself carried this burden? As close to an absurdity as could be imagined.

  In Chinese culture two things: honor and power, matter for much. Junjie lacked both. As a young man he would be required to bide his time before commanding other's respect. Given a normal life expectancy this would come, as this deficit was due only to a lack of accumulated years on the planet. The second issue, though—power—remained as something entirely out of his control.

  Junjie held no misconceptions about how business got done in his country. The corporate structure here mirrored much of the world's, where those in positions of influence often came from lineages of means. In every age, he understood, the myth of the outsider rising to glory was exactly that: a myth. In the real world, tribal and clan dominance was as old as humanity itself, only morphing from one epoch to another through the transitional forms of royalty, democratic political power, and economic clout. Junjie knew how these things went, that a family business is probably more family than it is business.

  And yet here he was. Dawn Star was enjoying a stunning growth trajectory, outbidding more established tech firms and then having performed better than anyone thought possible. Junjie's team had rapidly gained a reputation and standing that usually took much longer to forge. In an ever-modernizing China this had become more common—a young venture growing this way—especially in the fields of communication and data management. A currently uninterrupted boom in this sector had been in play since the late 90s, by most commentator's timetables. This trendline made successes like theirs far more possible with every passing decade. So no, the factor standing out in this storyline as odd was not the company but its founder. In many ways his name shouldn't be found in the text at all.

  Junjie's people arose not from the elite of Beijing or Hong Kong but from the remotest villages of Gansu Province. Far removed from the seats of the powerful, his lineage plied the trades of farming and mining as simple laborers and craftsmen. This central northwestern segment of the People's Republic of China was home for 26 million people, many ethnically Han, and an ongoing convergence of old and new. For ages Junjie's male forebears had been hard workers and committed family men. The women were competent and hearty as well; strong, physically and emotionally. Tough, resolute. Long days in the fields and mines of Gansu extracted whatever could be wrestled away from a Mother Nature seeming extraordinarily stingy toward her inhabitants in this remote part of the world. As was true of those before him, the same would be required of young Junjie: an honorable life of work and loyalties. And as the firstborn and a son he would carry on the family name Zang.

  This was the predetermined script of Junjie's life. How it played out was strikingly different, in almost every way imaginable. Even now, sitting in his lushly appointed office, a plot twist of this magnitude was hard to believe. Yet Junjie knew it was true. He remembered all too well where he'd come from.

  The crops had failed, again.

  Pain and weakness distorted Junjie's overactive imagination, sketching a bleak future onto the canvas of his young mind. Hunger pangs lingered amidst the frail and weak. As irreducible sedimentary remains of the struggle for life they reminded everyone of the unending, "never-enough" cycles in Gansu. It was brutally unfair. The fickleness of temperature, moisture, and sunshine had transformed a modest ex
pectation of survival into a fated acceptance of their frailties. The harvest had not come. Sickness and death surely would.

  Junjie read it in his parents' eyes. They'd given everything they had in fighting back against mortality but everyone has their limits. This, one more futile season, was the proverbial straw, finally severing the camel's back. An eerie silence hovered as the dark imprint of fatalism scribed its self-portrait onto the corners of life-worn faces. In light of such circumstances they did what they knew, what they had always done. Keep the sacred fires of their home altars lit. Prevail upon the spirits of ancestors, looking to the supernatural for signs of relief. There was no help to be found there, only fear, as the vacant, stoic expressions of the gods over the hearth fostered little confidence in these despairing households.

  The chill.

  Not only the physical need for heat. A deeper coldness of heart, permeating everything and everyone around them. At their end they needed a rescuer, a provider, a benefactor.

  EIGHT

  The well-worn, light blue SUV sat immobilized at a precarious and curious angle, stuck firmly in the wet, clay-rich soil of their village's main street.

  A young woman with flaming red hair gripped the steering wheel while working stick shift, accelerator, and brakes in a vain attempt at freeing the forlorn vehicle. Rear tires spun wildly, painting the young man pushing from behind in liquid brown. Even under all that mud, it was obvious he was a foreigner as well.

  En route to school one rainy fall day, Junjie happened upon them before anyone else. The boy chuckled at the odd situation playing out before him. Though he couldn't help himself, his reaction produced both joy and discomfort. His stomach hurt, as an empty, distended abdomen doesn't allow for much of a real belly-laugh.

  The man caught Junjie peering around the back of the car. As the young waif stifled another snicker the stranger flashed back an enormous smile, laughing along with the skin-and-bones local boy at the sight of his own mud-soaked clothes. The sound of his good humor told Junjie all was safe. These two were simply another helpless couple in a small town overflowing with people needing help.

  Who were they? Where were they from? Why come all the way out here? Did they intend to stay?

  Gansu had known outsiders before, arriving mostly to pillage their region's meager resources. Through the years many had come to take what they wanted, leaving behind the longer-lasting effects of depletion and short-term gains, forcefully removed and added to the riches of others. Understandably, many thought these two arrived in the same vein. But this was not the case. Not at all. These two—the man covered in muck and the woman with bright red hair, were different.

  More disposed to learn and give than to take and abuse, they told strange yet captivating parables, often about someone named Yasu and his unruly band of friends. These tales delighted young and old alike, fitting right in with the oral tradition of the villagers, serving both to entertain and share wisdom between generations. And along with their stories, the couple displayed a generous, kind spirit. Intriguing, yes, but these strangers would be kept at a distance. To be accepted they would need to earn their place.

  And so they did.

  Able and willing to supplement the village's rations, their employers—an Australian development organization—helped them all survive those first, harsh months. This single act of kindness made all the difference. Resolved to weeping and mourning in the bleakness of winter, they welcomed instead a handful of newborns along with the fresh winds of late springtime. And this young couple's hospitality appeared boundless, even for those who know anything about the welcoming character of those from down under. They encouraged Junjie's curiosity and budding skill with electronics and computers, letting him "repair" their satellite phone a hundred times or more. Often, and usually unannounced, he walked into the always-open front door of their home.

  "Junjie? Is that you, my boy?"

  The foreigner's accent made him smile, especially when struggling with certain words and phrases in their dialect. It was completely disarming.

  "Yes," Junjie replied, inching ever closer to the table holding all the communications gear for the couple.

  "Well, well. Let's see," the man said. "No. I don't think we'll need you to work on the sat phone today, little one."

  Disappointment clouded over Junjie's face and eyes.

  The man continued.

  "But... how about this instead...?"

  The man stepped aside, revealing the opened casing of the desktop computer in front of him.

  Cables. Hard drives. Circuit board. A veritable playground begged exploration, bidding the junior engineer to pull, connect, and reset the many objects making up the whole.

  Would they trust him with this most important tool?

  The broad, open smile on the man's face gave him his answer and the next four hours were absolutely wonderful, discovering and learning alongside of one of his most trusted childhood friends.

  Eventually the couple became as much a part of Gansu as the families who'd been working this land for the last three centuries. It took time and effort but it happened.

  They belonged.

  One warm, quiet evening a sense of joyous anticipation filled the air.

  The man and woman were expecting their first child.

  In Gansu births are public affairs where communal matriarchs offer their skills and experience, ensuring as best they can a joyful entrance into the world. Many such moments had taken place here. This time though, something felt different, unique, as the entire populace held its collective breath, anticipating that first, infantile cry of life.

  Waiting, they fussed.

  They waited longer and fussed some more.

  It never came.

  That expected sound, one calling out the deepest of human hopes, was displaced instead with deep, inconsolable cries. The young mother-to-be grieving her still-born child, desperately trying to reconcile this tragedy with images she'd projected in her mind of a full and good life for her family. The sadness and loss seemed palpable throughout every home, on every street.

  Heartbreaking.

  The couple stayed on in Gansu for a few more harvests, eventually returning to family and nation. Though their residence among Junjie's people had been brief, its impact turned out to be significant, so profound. The years following brought both good and bad growing seasons, just like before.

  The change wasn't in their fortunes. It was on their faces.

  Decades later, Junjie understood what had happened. The unexpected visitation had altered everything for him and his people. Somehow, wonderfully, fear gave way to hope, and not just any hope but one that could survive the harshest things rural life in China might send their way.

  This same hope lived in the young businessman.

  And it began to revive him now, as well.

  Still bent forward in his chair, Junjie lifted his head from his hands and stood. Reminders of where he came from and how he'd gotten here were a healing tonic, giving him purpose, making him thankful.

  The young man looked out into the smog beyond the windowpanes.

  Still, nothing. Yet he knew without a doubt what was there, behind the graying veil.

  What was that saying? he thought to himself.

  Faith is the substance of things not seen...

  NINE

  Zeb's ears rang mercilessly.

  Head slouching downward and to the side, his chin tucked limply against his collarbone. A thin, wet, red line flowed outward from his ear canal and down along the ridge of his left shoulder. Though feeling the sticky procession, Dalton could catch only an unfocused glimpse of it out the corner of his eye.

  On the ground. Flat, hard asphalt beneath his body. Dalton's cerebral cortex told him little more than this. At the moment his mind was nothing more than a mess of jumbled, disfigured sensory data points; an unsettling, uncontrollable dance of nerve fibers and chemicals. All he had to work with were vague messages of danger and harm, hazy biologi
cal dispatches that spoke with neither clarity nor urgency.

  Zeb tried moving but his stomach and mind weren't in agreement enough yet to keep him from retching onto the warm, gray pavement.

  Though reeling, Dalton's body would not give up. It was still fighting to do its job, desperately trying to alert him of the perils at hand. It could only do so much, leaving Zeb with an impressionistic image of his surroundings and the real state of vulnerability he was in. Struggle as he might, everything that mattered stayed at a distance, just beyond his grasp. Though he could do nothing about it, he realized his overall state of situational awareness—so very crucial for a soldier—had degraded way beyond acceptable norms.

  Something was wrong, very wrong.

  Zeb tried to move again. The epic fight gained him only an awkward, semi-upright position. Slumping backward, he thankfully found a wall to halt his collapse. The retired soldier's tenuous grip on consciousness faded and a calming blackness advanced at the edges of his blurred vision.

  He stopped fighting and welcomed it.

  With eyelids closed the memory came back, cruelly distorted by the rush of chemicals in Zeb's head and as present as if it were happening again for the first time.

  "Unless ye drink my blood and eat my body, ye have no part in me..."

  The unseen voice resonated—deep, haunting.

  Only four or five years of age, Zeb had snuck in without permission and found himself now enveloped in something terrible. Hidden under a table at the back of the small church, his father's voluminous baritone voice filled the air with the mysterious phrase. Such horrible imagery and the fact it proceeded from his father's mouth frightened him beyond belief, both literally and figuratively.

  Again, and more insistent this time:

  "Unless ye drink my blood and eat my body, ye have no part in me!"