The Wandering Earth: Classic Science Fiction Collection by Liu Cixin

by Cixin Liu

  The Honored Brother Crosscut's name originated from the saw that was never far from his side. This saw was very thin and flexible, but also incredibly sharp. The saw's handle was made of hard sea-willow and was decorated with beautiful Japanese ukiyo-e carvings. Crosscut used to wear it around his waist, like a strange belt. In his free time he often took the saw off and played a violin bow across its back. By bending its blade and playing across the various widths of the saw's body, the Honored Brother Crosscut could produce notes, even music. The strange tunes he played would hang in the air, their melancholy and dark timbre always reminding Mr. Smoothbore of a ghost's sobs. Mr. Smoothbore had of course heard of the sharp saw's other use, but he had only once seen the Honored Brother Crosscut actually apply it in full.

  It had been during a high-stakes game in an old warehouse. One of the senior brothers, a man appropriately called Mr. Half-Brick, had no luck and played worse. Soon, he had lost everything, even his parent's house. With his eyes bloodshot, he had offered both of his arms in an all or nothing bet. The Honored Brother Crosscut had thrown him the dice and with a cruel smile told him that he could not bet his arms; after all, what fun would he be to have around without his hands?

  “Bet your legs,” he had told him.

  So, Mr. Half-Brick had bet both his legs – and he lost again. Crosscut had stood, unfolded his saw and taken both of Mr. Half-Brick’s legs off at the knees. The strange symphony of sounds of the saw cutting through tendons and parting bone rang clearly in Mr. Smoothbore's ears since that day. Back then, the Honored Brother Crosscut had stood on Mr. Half-Brick's neck to trap the shrieks of agony in his throat, leaving only the rhythmic sound of the saw being pulled back and forth across flesh and through bone. It played a lively tune across the innards of the knee, changing its timbre and tone as it opened the depths of bone and cartilage. Snow-white bone-ends were splashed with scarlet blood to the sound of music, conjuring an abstract image of exquisite beauty. Its strange harmony had shaken Mr. Smoothbore right to his very core. Every last inch of his body, inside and out, had joined the song of saw and flesh. Damn, that was life!

  It had been his eighteenth birthday, and he had received the perfect present. After it was done, the Honored Brother Crosscut had wiped his beloved saw and wrapped it back around his waist. Pointing to the trails of blood that had been left behind were Mr. Half-Brick and his two legs had been dragged away, he said, “Tell the young Mr. Brick that I will provide for him from now on.”

  Even though Mr. Smoothbore had been young he had been a trusted member of the Honored Brother Crosscut's family as it rose to power and barely a month went by without a bloody job. When Crosscut had finally made his first fortune in the blood-soaked gutter of society, he moved up in the world, rising from a brutal thug to become a respectable criminal, well-shielded behind front-organizations and legitimate investments. In the wake of his rise, the loyal men of his crime family were all given positions as vice-chairman, vice-director general, and titles of the like. Only Mr. Smoothbore was left behind as the Honored Brother Crosscut's bodyguard. But those in the know understood that the level of trust and confidence this appointment implied was no trifling matter. The Honored Brother Crosscut had always been careful; it was a habit probably brought on by the fate of his godfather who himself had already been a very careful man. In the words of the Honored Brother Crosscut, he would have wrapped himself in iron if could have.

  Even after many years of peace, Crosscut's godfather had boarded that fateful flight with only two of his most trusted bodyguards. He had taken a seat between them, thinking himself as safe as could be. It was a flight attendant who found the three men after they had landed, wondering why they had not left their seats. At first glance they had looked lost in thought. A second look revealed that their blood had already spilled down a dozen rows. The three men had been impaled from behind by very slender, wickedly sharp steel needles. These needles had been pushed through their backrests, piercing the bodyguard's hearts with three spikes each. As for the godfather, his body had been skewered by no less than 14 sharp metal needles, leaving him pinned to his seat like a butterfly, meticulously and lovingly prepared for display. They were sure that the 14 had been a message, perhaps hinting at 14 million ill-gotten yuan, or it could have been that his killer had waited 14 years for his vengeance…

  As he set out on his journey, it was no different for the Honored Brother Crosscut. His entire world became a forest of secret blades and hidden pitfalls. He had truly put his life in Mr. Smoothbore's hands.

  Soon, however, Mr. Smoothbore's position had been threatened by Mr. K. The Russian Mr. K had been a downright fashion statement – a KGB bodyguard. In those days, that had been as good a trophy for the rich as a movie star lover. The people around Crosscut had a good share of trouble pronouncing the unfamiliar sounds of his Russian name and so they just called him Mr. KGB at first. They went to “Mr. K” from there. In truth, Mr. K had never been KGB. Former KGB officers were more often than not glorified desk jockeys and even the ones that had served on the hot frontlines of the Cold War were amateurs in the realm of personal security. Mr. K had been part of the security services of the Central Security Bureau of the Soviet Union and had served on the detail of Andrei Gromkyo, the then Minister of Foreign Affairs who had gained his fame in the West as “Mr. Nyet”. In that roundabout way, Mr. K was the genuine article and true expert when it came to keeping his clients breathing. The Honored Brother Crosscut had hired him on a salary equivalent to a vice-chair of his company. This was no act of vanity on Crosscut's part, but merely a precaution in consideration of his own security.

  The moment Mr. K made his appearance it became clear that he was nothing like the other run-of-the-mill bodyguards around the Honored Brother Crosscut. Those bodyguards, who had learned their trade protecting the wealthy and powerful, would dine with their employers and would feel free to butt in when their client was talking shop. When real danger reared its head, they would either charge it like a street thug or leave their client in the dust of their panicked retreat. Mr. K, on the other hand, whether he attended a dinner or negotiations, always remained silent and in the background, his massive frame a literal wall of body, ever ready to block any incoming peril. Even though Mr. K never had the opportunity to protect a client from danger, his professionalism and abilities made it certain beyond doubt that he would perform his duty to perfection. Mr. Smoothbore was somewhat more professional than the other bodyguards and had not developed their bad habits, but he nonetheless felt a world of difference between him and Mr. K. For example, it took him a long time to understand that Mr. K wore sunglasses at all times not to look cool, but to hide where he was looking.

  Mr. K learned Chinese quickly enough, but still he would not cavort with Mr. Smoothbore or anyone else in his client's circle. He maintained this distance until one day, when he suddenly asked Mr. Smoothbore into his Spartan room. After Mr. K had poured Mr. Smoothbore and himself a glass of vodka, he told him in halting Chinese, “I want to teach you to speak.”

  “Speak?” Mr. Smoothbore had asked.

  “Speak a foreign language,” Mr. K had replied.

  After that, Mr. Smoothbore had started learning a foreign language from Mr. K. A few days later he realized that he was not being taught Russian, but English. Mr. Smoothbore was quick to pick it up and before too long his English had become decently fluent. Seeing his rapid development, Mr. K had told him, “You are not like the others.”

  “It feels like that to me,” Mr. Smoothbore had said with a nod.

  “In thirty years of professional experience, I have learned to accurately pick out the rare people with your kind of potential. To be honest, it chilled me when I looked into your eyes for the first time. You know, being cold-blooded for a moment is not all that difficult, but having frozen blood that never warms, now that is the real thing. You could be one of the elite; just don't let yourself get buried amongst the others,” Mr. K had told him.

  “What sh
ould I do?” Mr. Smoothbore had wanted to know.

  “First, go study abroad,” Mr. K had instructed.

  The Honored Brother Crosscut had loved the idea the moment he heard of it from Mr. K, going as far as to promise his full backing and funding. In fact, he had wanted to rid himself of Mr. Smoothbore ever since he had hired Mr. K, but had no open positions in the company.

  So one winter night, a plane carried the young man who had been orphaned in childhood and who had grown up in the darkest corners of the criminal underworld to strange lands.

  Starting his ancient Santana, Mr. Smoothbore made his way to the locations on the back of the photos. His first stop was Blossom Plaza. Finding the person in the photo was hardly an effort; the homeless man on the picture was rummaging through a trashcan just as Mr. Smoothbore arrived. Having completed his forage, the bum made his way to a bench, bulging garbage bags in tow. His pickings had been rich; a large, almost undisturbed takeout box netting him an only once-bitten sausage, a few pieces of mostly intact bread and half a can of Coke. Mr. Smoothbore had expected that the bum would use his hands to wolf down his procurements, but he instead saw the man retrieve a small aluminum spoon from his filthy overcoat. Even though summer had already begun to heat the city, the man was still wearing layers of thick rags. He then proceeded to slowly eat his dinner, returning what little waste he left to the trashcan he had first retrieved it from.

  Mr. Smoothbore studied his surroundings, watching the dark slowly fall over the city. He knew this area like the back of his hand, but now it somehow felt strange. He quickly figured out how this bum managed to maintain his plump shape. The plaza was a common haunt for the city's homeless, but now he could find not a one. Not one bum other than his mark remained. Where had they gone? Had they all been processed?

  Mr. Smoothbore headed to the next location. It was a shack, made of corrugated sheets and cardboard boxes, huddled under an overpass at the edge of the city. As Mr. Smoothbore arrived, he noticed pale yellow light shining through its flimsy walls. He carefully approached, prying open a crack in the shack's “door”. Poking his head in, he was stunned by the bright and colorful world within. The inside of the shack was entirely covered in paintings of all shapes and sizes, forming solid walls of art. Following a wisp of smoke, Mr. Smoothbore found the vagrant artist. The man was lying in a broken easel. Long hair hanging over a paint-covered face and wearing an extra large t-shirt that seemed more like a robe on him, he reminded Mr. Smoothbore of a hibernating bear. The painter was smoking a pack of bargain basement cigarettes while his eyes shifted from one work to the next, to Mr. Smoothbore. His gaze overflowed with both wonder and loss, leaving Mr. Smoothbore with the feeling that he must be the first person to enter this private world. He could easily imagine the vagrant painter spending days on end here alone, captured by the narcissistic wonder of his own creation and creations. This kind of failed and penniless artists had been legion in the ‘90s of the last century, but these days they had become a rare sight.

  “It’s all right, come in,” the artist said, his eyes still wandering over his paintings. He did not even look at the door as Mr. Smoothbore entered his shack. His tone was as unexpected as everything else about the man; he sounded more like an emperor, opening his palace to an audience. “Do you like my paintings?” he asked as soon as Mr. Smoothbore had come inside.

  Mr. Smoothbore looked about, discovering most of the art to be a mere mess of colors; paint splashed on a canvas at random would have looked downright rational in comparison. There were, however, a few realistic paintings in the mix as well. Mr. Smoothbore's gaze was quickly drawn to one among these: It was a picture of parched and splitting soil. There was also a few withered plants rising from the cracks, but they all looked like they had died centuries ago. It left him with the impression of a world forever devoid of water and rain. Lying on the broken earth was a human skull, bleached white and covered in a lattice of cracks. Unexpected green sprouts rose from one cavernous eye socket, vibrant and full of life, intensely distinct from the dead, dry world surrounding them. One sprout was topped with a gentle and beautiful flower. The other eye socket actually contained a human eye, a clear pupil staring up at heaven. Much like the artist's own gaze, it was full of wonder and loss.

  “I like that one,” Mr. Smoothbore said, pointing at the painting.

  “It is called, 'Barren Land 2',” the artist said. “Do you want to buy it?”

  “How much?” Mr. Smoothbore asked.

  “How much you got?” came the response.

  Mr. Smoothbore took out his wallet and handed the artist all of his hundred yuan notes. The strange man only took two.

  “That's all it’s worth. Take it, it’s yours,” he said.

  Mr. Smoothbore started the car as he picked up the third photo, studying the location it revealed. A mere moment later he stopped the car's engine. What the photo showed was right next to the overpass: The city's largest landfill. He picked up his binoculars and began scanning the dump through his windshield, looking for his mark amongst the scavengers clambering on the trash.

  Three-hundred-thousand fed on the garbage of the city, forming a class of their own, complete with its own divisions and social order. The highest ranking could enter the exclusive residential areas and scavenge amongst the mansions and villas. From the exquisite, almost sculpture-like trash cans they could pick out a daily spoil of new shirts, socks, bed sheets and other items the residents considered disposable. They often even found only slightly scratched, quality leather shoes and belts, as well as barely smoked Havana cigars and premium bars of chocolate missing only a corner…

  But to pick the garbage of these neighborhoods necessitated large bribes to the security contractors that only a few could afford. The select few who could pay had become the scavenger nobility. The middleclass of scavenger society gathered in the many waste-transfer stations around the city. These were the points of first collection for the city's trash. The waste found there still contained the most valuable pieces of garbage, such as discarded electronics, metals, intact paper products, abandoned medical equipment and medicines past their due date and the like. The scavengers picked all of it completely clean. These sites were not open to just anyone, however. Every waste-transfer station was under the control of some waste disposal gang-master or another and any scavenger who entered without their authorization was harshly punished; a solid beating and swift kick to the curb for lesser infractions and death for more severe offenders. After passing through the transfer station, the garbage went to the large landfills outside the city. The waste reaching these sites was largely stripped of its “nutrients”, yet it was what the majority of scavengers subsisted off of. This majority was the lowest rung of scavenger society. It was this kind of people that Mr. Smoothbore was looking at right now.

  The scavengers were picking through the waste, looking for what little was left for them, primarily scraps of plastics and cardboard, mostly worthless and hard to retrieve. They were also looking for rotten food in the trash which they could sell to the local farmers as pig feed at 10 yuan to the kilo.

  The bright skyline of the metropolis loomed in the near distance, twinkling like an enormous gem in the night. Its shimmer illuminated this stinking mountain of garbage, coating it in a faint, flickering glow. The scavengers themselves were well aware of the extravagant luxuries of the nearby city; they faced them every day as they picked through its trash. Amongst the rotting food they would find the legs of a roast piglet, a barely touched grouper fish, a whole chicken…

  Complete, fully cooked Silkie chickens had recently become particularly common, owing to the popularity of White Jade Chicken. This en vogue dish was prepared by opening the belly of a Silkie chicken, filling it with tofu and letting it stew. Even though the chickens, known for their fluffy plumage and tasty black meat, were considered a delicacy, diners in the know would not touch it, eating only the tofu. Much like the reed leaves around a rice dumpling, actually eating the chicken
made the patron the laughingstock of the culinary world.

  As Mr. Smoothbore watched the landfill, he saw the last truck of the day arrive. As it tilted its dumper, a group of scavengers had already gathered to welcome the avalanche of waste. Soon they disappeared in the rising dust and mass of the garbage mountain. It seemed that these people had evolved into a completely new form of human life, unaffected by the stench, bacteria and grime of the waste mountain they lived on. Of course, that illusion was only maintained by seeing how they lived, and not how they died. It was much like with the bodies of bugs and rats; ordinary people almost never noticed their remains and so could not have cared less. The truth, however, was that the bodies of scavengers were all too common on this giant landfill. They died quietly on this mountain, soon to be buried in new waste.

  In the dim glow cast by distant floodlights at the edge of the dump, the scavengers were no more than blurred, filthy shadows. Even so, it took Mr. Smoothbore only a few short minutes to make out his mark on the mountain. The quick find was less a tribute to Mr. Smoothbore's keen perception than to another reason entirely: It was the same as with the bums in Blossom Plaza – today he could spot far fewer scavengers than usual on the landfill. And again he was left to wonder what might have happened.

  As Mr. Smoothbore began studying his mark, he found her to be much the same as the other scavengers around her. She had a thick string tied around her waist and she was carrying a large, rough woven bag and a rake attached to the end of a long pole. On closer inspection, she did look thinner than the others, her slight stature leaving her stuck at the back of the jostle. Rummaging through the garbage at the periphery of the scavenger pack, she had to make do with the waste of the waste.

  Mr. Smoothbore lowered his binoculars, pondering what he had seen as he gently rocked his head side to side. The oddest thing in the world had just happened right before his eyes: A city bum, an impoverished, homeless painter, and a woman who lived off garbage; these three people – some of the poorest and weakest in the world – somehow seemed to pose a threat to the richest and most powerful magnates in the world. Not only that: Apparently they were enough of a problem to make these super-rich hire a hit-man to kill them?