Ruse

by Cindy Pon

  She felt better as soon as she sent the message. It was clear she needed to take her MacFold and backup drive somewhere for safekeeping in the meantime. It was well past two a.m., but Jany set her alarm to be at the Bank of China when they opened at nine a.m. the next morning.

  Her alarm beeped insistently, startling Jany awake from a troubled sleep. It felt like her body had gotten no rest at all. She recalled nightmares of being chased, of fleeing faceless strangers all night. But she left her dorm with a renewed sense of determination. Jin’s interest and insistence on buying her invention meant that what she had was really good, brilliant even. It could be a game changer. Had Jin actually sent someone to mug her last night? Or worse? She didn’t know what to think.

  Jany decided to walk to the Bund, where the Bank of China was located, instead of taking public transportation. Walking always helped to clear her head, and she felt she had a better chance of escaping if pursued on the streets again, rather than being trapped underground on the metro. Barely eight a.m. and the air already felt thick and humid, but August was always like this. She readjusted her face mask and glanced at the pedestrians jostling past her to their work or school, most with their faces hidden behind masks too.

  She was just passing the brick facade of the Bund Tea Company on Dianchi Road when someone bumped her hard in the back, so she stumbled into a man dressed in a business suit. He glared at her but didn’t break his stride. As she tried to regain her footing, someone grabbed her messenger bag strap, wrenching her shoulder painfully. Fear surged through her body. Jany spun just in time to see a knife flash and plunge into the thick fabric of her bag. She had her heavy engineering book with her, and it saved her life. Her MacFold and drive were tucked behind the text. If she hadn’t twisted around, she would have gotten that knife in her back.

  The man tried again to wrest the messenger bag from her, but she gripped the strap in both hands, refusing to let go. His eyes were beady and sharklike above his black face mask. Letting go, he slashed at her and the blade cut through her denim jacket, drawing blood. She didn’t feel the cut, only saw the red bloom on her sleeve. Shouting, she stomped the man hard on his foot, then kneed him in the groin—a move she had perfected on the streets of Shanghai against lechers who had wandering hands.

  Commuters exclaimed in surprise but skirted around them. No one stopped to help as the thug doubled over in pain, gasping. Over his shoulder, Jany saw another man in a black mask, pushing people aside to reach her. The adrenaline hit her like an injection, snapping Jany from her shock. Jin was desperate and ruthless enough to try and murder her on a crowded sidewalk in broad daylight. Hell if she’d let herself be stabbed like some fool tourist on the streets of Shanghai.

  Jany whirled and ran into the morning commute crowd, disappearing into a throng of early sightseers, at least forty strong, all gathered on the pavement wearing orange caps. They shouted and shoved back as she fought her way through them, swallowing the sob that threatened to tear from her throat. Still, she kept both hands fisted over her messenger bag strap, refusing to let go.

  Over my dead body, she thought. Then she realized just how dire her situation was, as her cut continued to bleed, saturating her sleeve. She ignored the sharp aching pain pulsing through her forearm.

  She skidded into an empty side street, and then another, running until her lungs hurt. Jany never looked back, too afraid she’d find her killers right behind her. She didn’t know she had been crying until the doors of the metro at Nanjing Dong Road slid closed behind her, and she swept a shaking hand across her wet cheek. Passengers stared at her blood-soaked sleeve, and she clutched her arm to her, trying not to give in to the sobs that threatened to rack her body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LINGYI

  The flight from Taipei to Shanghai took under an hour. Still, Lingyi was hoping she’d be able to sleep through it. She hated flying, but even worse, she’d had trouble sleeping ever since they had blown up Jin Corp six months ago. She had suffered from almost daily nightmares after, unable to recall anything from her dreams, only to be woken again and again with Iris’s strong arms wound tight around her as she murmured reassurances, reeling Lingyi back to reality. Lingyi’s heart would always be racing and her face wet from tears.

  “Do you remember?” Iris would whisper, her lips brushing against Lingyi’s throat.

  And Lingyi would shake her head.

  No, she never remembered.

  There were no snippets, not even fragments of an image. What she was left with from those dreams were feelings: betrayal, loss, sorrow, regret.

  But they would never speak the word that hung in the humid air between them. Because Lingyi was too afraid to face the onslaught of overwhelming emotions, to come to terms with his death; because Iris was too afraid to ask.

  Victor.

  They never said his name aloud.

  The soothing tones of the flight attendant wishing them a pleasant flight had barely faded when the lights dimmed to a cool neon blue in first class. The majority of the passengers had already pulled the VR helmets over their eyes and ears, plugged into their entertainment of choice—from playing hero in their favorite game, to traveling to wherever their heart desired, to acting out more illicit fantasies. You get what you pay for, Lingyi’s father had always said, and first-class passengers were granted whatever they wanted in virtual reality.

  Lingyi had popped a sedative in desperation before the short flight, hoping the medication would knock her out, give her some peace of mind. But the gods were not kind. She drifted into an agitated waking dream instead, punctuated by the hacking cough of the passenger behind her and the sharp wailing of a baby to the side. Sleep would not claim her. Instead her mind kept wandering back to moments in time. . . .

  I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, Lingyi.

  Victor had kissed his gloved hand and gently caressed her cheek after, a gesture mostly lost on her group of friends because everyone had been so relieved she and Iris had survived the horrendous avian flu Jin had released. But Lingyi did not miss the tenderness in Victor’s warm brown eyes, or how he had allowed himself to gaze at her, heart open and vulnerable; he loved her still.

  She had known that, yet had avoided talking about it with him. They had dated several months and she had liked him, but Lingyi hadn’t been in love. This became starkly clear when Iris had shown up one night in Lingyi’s small apartment, invited by Vic himself. Iris with her platinum hair shorn short had given Lingyi the faintest of nods when Victor had introduced her, her slender eyes flicking briefly across Lingyi’s face, before sliding away. She didn’t say a word, instead pacing the small living room, reminding Lingyi of a caged cat, one that would be much happier roaming free outdoors.

  Keeping a wide smile plastered on her face that entire night, Lingyi had spoken in forced and cheerful tones, like a songbird prodded to sing by having a stick thrust at her. She chirped on in bright and nervous notes until Iris suddenly stood still and looked Lingyi square in the eyes. “I like your skirt,” Iris said in a low voice. “The colors.”

  Lingyi had been wearing a pouffy fuchsia skirt dappled with indigo chrysanthemums. She remembered that moment so clearly, because she had stopped talking midsentence, like a recording cut off. Then the slow rise of heat climbed from her neck to her cheeks. She was certain she glowed as bright red as a ripe summer tomato, and Iris didn’t miss it with her sharp gaze. It was clear Iris was not saying, That’s a skirt I’d like to wear ; it was obvious that she was complimenting Lingyi in her quiet and aloof way.

  Lingyi hadn’t known if Victor had caught her blush as well, because in that moment, she had forgotten that he was even in the room.

  Iris had been an enigma and a surprise; she came into Lingyi’s life and had turned her entire world on its head.

  The plane lurched, jolting Lingyi awake. Not long after, it thudded onto the runway, bouncing hard enough that her teeth clacked together. She must have fallen asleep for a bit and had not
suffered a nightmare, thanks to the sedative. Yet she felt more exhausted than before the flight began—emotionally drained. She never thought she’d return to China again, not when her last visit was filled with happy memories spent with her parents and younger brother, not when her father had told her in no uncertain terms to never return, because she should break all ties with him if she wanted to lead a quiet life in Taipei. Her father had fled back to China after it was revealed he was the infamous “little mouse” hacker from decades back. He didn’t want his reputation to taint hers.

  Lingyi rubbed her eyes, feeling the corner of her mouth twitch upward ruefully. That was before she and her friends decided to bomb Jin Corp—before everything changed forever. She was skilled enough in her hacking to escape any detection, and none of it could be traced back to her. She had been taught by the best, after all. But if her father had any inkling she had been involved, she suspected he’d feel proud, very proud, right before he sent her to live somewhere isolated on a tundra so she would keep out of trouble.

  But he would never know. Just as he could never know his daughter had returned to China, against his direct wishes and her own better judgment. Lingyi had felt a knot of anxiety ever since she’d agreed to meet with Jany in Shanghai, and that tightness in her chest had never eased. But she had such fond memories of Jany’s stay with them for two summers. Lingyi was the eldest in her family, but she had gotten an older sister in Jany for those few precious months. While her brother stayed home playing computer games, Lingyi got to explore Taipei in a way she never had as a fourteen-year-old, because Jany herself had been nineteen. They had lost touch in recent years, but Lingyi knew Jany had received a master’s in engineering and was pursuing her doctorate. She remembered Jany as smart, funny, and kind. Lingyi could never leave her hanging if Jany needed her help, and had booked her ticket immediately for the next day after receiving Jany’s message.

  Lingyi grabbed her larger carry-on, then slung her leather messenger bag carrying her MacFold across her shoulder and deplaned with the stream of first-class passengers. They were guided by black velvet ropes to the cavernous immigration area, lit too bright under white fluorescent lights. She followed the signs written in simplified Chinese directing everyone to the VIP section for Chinese reentering the country. China had long refused to see Taiwan as its own country, but it still made her bristle, this power play for visiting Taiwanese. Exhausted, Lingyi swayed on her feet and gripped the metal railing. The sedative should be wearing off now—she had taken a tiny dose—but maybe she shouldn’t have risked it. Lingyi didn’t have to wait more than fifteen minutes before it was her turn in front of a bored-looking Chinese man studying her from behind his glass partition. He had a buzz cut and sharp cheekbones. Lingyi stood still as the floating bot hovering beside the immigration officer scanned her retina.

  “Are you on drugs?” the man asked. “Your pupils are constricted.”

  She blinked. “I took a sedative . . . flying makes me nervous.”

  He made a noncommittal grunt, and Lingyi’s pulse quickened.

  “Reason for your visit, Ms. Chang?” the man asked, his gaze trained on the screen in front of him.

  “For pleasure,” Lingyi said. She had hacked into the Bureau of Consular Affairs and altered her passport account with a false identity. She didn’t think her father would be trawling, but she couldn’t risk him knowing she was in China. It was safer that no one knew.

  The man finally looked her full in the face, took in her purple hair and pale blue maxi dress—she had tried to tone down her usually bright clothing choices for the trip. “How many days are you staying?”

  She cleared her throat; her mouth had gone dry. “A week.” Lingyi had no doubt her work for this false passport identity was solid, still she couldn’t suppress her nerves. “I’m staying in the Waldorf Astoria on the Bund,” she added. She hadn’t chosen one of the most expensive hotels in Shanghai to impress the immigration officer; it was because if you were rich, you were subjected to less scrutiny. People trusted wealth.

  The man tapped on the glowing keyboard set in his console, then nodded and waved her through without another word.

  The relative quiet of the VIP section of immigration turned muggy and noisy the moment Lingyi emerged into the airport proper, navigating her way through a crush of people and floating bots trying to sell her hotel stays and airped rentals. She fought her way out of the terminal, only to be met with a winding line of at least one hundred impatient people waiting for a taxi. She stood behind a heavyset man shouting into his Palm, feeling the sweat trickle down her back, before the oppressive August heat became too much.

  The glass terminal curved above them, and aircars and limos zipped overhead, avoiding the congested traffic below. A covered escalator took people onto a landing where airlimos were gliding in to pick up their rich passengers. Being the daughter of one of the most successful building and cybersecurity entrepreneurs in the business meant that Lingyi had always grown up as you, a rich girl who was familiar with the luxuries that wealth provided. But at times, she still balked at its advantages. Her father had been born dirt poor and became a self-made millionaire, but he never hesitated to express his frustrations over the inequalities he saw in China, and then in Taiwan. In this moment, however, she was willing to spend the cash to get into a cool airlimo and arrive at Jany’s two hours faster than suffering on the ground for a regular taxi.

  When she climbed into the air-conditioned cabin of the silver airlimo and sank against the tan leather seat, Lingyi knew she had made the right choice, even given the outrageous three thousand Renminbi price for the ride. A barbot hummed over, and Lingyi requested an iced winter melon tea, which incredibly, the bot could provide. She sipped the sweet, refreshing beverage and felt her shoulders relax as the driver behind the black opaque divider guided them upward, whisking them through the air at a speed only possible in the open skies.

  She gazed at the endless apartment buildings below in the Pudong District, stacked so close they looked like concrete dominoes. Curving highways wound around them, filled with cars, trucks, and motorbikes, crawling like insects as her airlimo flew overhead. Soon Shanghai’s famous skyline opposite the Bund emerged from the thick blanket of brown smog, just beginning to glow in neons as dusk settled across the vast city. Jin Feiming’s latest venture, Jin Tower, dominated among icons like the Pearl Tower and the Shanghai World Financial Center, looming over them, taking the title of tallest building in the world.

  Jin Tower, the world’s first “vertical city,” was a sleek study in glass, a 188-floor high-rise much more ambitious than the 101 in Taipei, housing offices, residences, restaurants, grocery stores, and shopping centers, including garden levels—a city in itself—the idea being that a person would never have to leave. Its twisting shape was rumored to replicate a dragon emerging from the earth. Jin had broken ground on the project three years ago but put construction in overdrive in the last six months, since Jin Corp headquarters had been destroyed in Taipei. News sources claimed Jin was preparing for a grand opening this month in Shanghai like the world had never seen.

  The high-rise was beautiful, but monstrous. Now that the Jin suits were currently off the market, Lingyi knew he was searching for a different way to profit from the filthy air that polluted the city—and much of the entire country. With a population near twenty-six million, the most sought-after things in Shanghai were prime real estate and good air. Jin guaranteed both for his buyers with the vertical city. As her airlimo followed the bend of the Huangpu River and swept past the magnificent high-rise, Lingyi felt the hairs on her arms lift, and she clenched her fists. The reaction was visceral; she didn’t hate many people in life, but she hated Jin. Not only had he ordered Arun’s mom, Dr. Nataraj, to be murdered, Lingyi also blamed him for Victor’s death.

  Jany had instructed Lingyi to go to Yuyuan in the Old City of Shanghai and given her specific directions on how to get to her apartment on foot. I’d meet you at the airport myse
lf, Jany had messaged. But I’m too afraid to leave my home. Please be sure you’re not being followed. Lingyi remembered a Jany who would easily break into a smile, revealing a deep dimple in her right cheek, with a carefree and robust laugh. They had giggled over so many silly things over those two summers—like when Lingyi had stolen the cap off a person in Pikachu costume promoting a Pokémon buffet. She did not come across as someone prone to exaggeration or dramatics. Lingyi knew from that single exchange that Jany had somehow gotten herself into a very serious and dangerous situation. She was worried for her old friend.

  Dusk cast the city in a dirty golden haze, and despite the setting sun, it was still unbearably hot, especially after the coolness within the airlimo. It was rush hour as men and women dressed in business suits stampeded out of buildings and made their way to the metro or hailed taxis. Again Lingyi was struck by the sheer number of people moving on the sidewalk, even as more people zoomed by in haphazard fashion on mopeds and bicycles, some on contraptions they must have built themselves, the back of their vehicles stacked high with boxes or other strange inventory. Because Jany had refused to share an actual address, Lingyi stopped often, searching for landmarks, only to be bumped or elbowed by someone rushing past without so much as a glance in her direction. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a handkerchief and coughed, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest—that feeling of unease. The thin face mask she wore did little to disguise the smog that permeated the city air, the pungent stench of fuel and exhaust. Shanghai’s pollution was as bad as Taipei’s, if not worse.

  Finally, she found the colorful fruit market on a corner opposite a Family Mart as Jany had described. Lingyi paused, pretending to examine the large mangoes on display. She had tried to see if anyone had been following her, but there had been too many people on the sidewalks. She then slipped into Jany’s street and stopped several doorways down, leaning against the wall. It was more like an alleyway, flanked by squat brown buildings, their facades marked by decades of grime and pollution. Laundry poles jutted out from every window above, with blankets and clothes hung out to dry. These three-story buildings were much older than the high-rises that surrounded them, and occupied by poorer folk, who could not afford the high-tech apartments and city views, but it was quieter here, secluded almost. Lingyi had left the hordes of people and endless honking cars behind, stepping into a different world, it seemed.