by Cixin Liu
He had placed “Barren Land 2” on his backseat. Now, the one eye of its skull was staring at him in the dark, piercing him like a spike to the back.
A chorus of screams rose from the edge of the trash, refocusing Mr. Smoothbore's attention. The world outside his car was enveloped in a blue light. The glow emanated from the east where a blue sun rapidly rose over the horizon. It was our Elder's ship, moving to the Southern Hemisphere. The spaceship normally emitted no light whatsoever, rising as a small moon in the night sky as it reflected the distant sun's light. Sometimes, however, it suddenly emanated a blue glow, covering the entire world with its light and throwing all of humanity into a state of nameless terror. This time the spaceship's light was brighter than it had ever been, possibly because it was in a lower orbit than usual. The blue sun rose behind the city's skyline, the shadows cast by the distant skyscrapers reaching all the way to the landfill, grasping at it like the black hands of titans. Soon these strange arms retreated as the spaceship continued its rapid ascent into the night sky.
The glow of our Elder's spaceship greatly increased visibility, offering Mr. Smoothbore the opportunity for a better look at the scavenger girl on the dump. He raised his binoculars again to verify his observations and to re-confirm that she was indeed his mark. The girl was squatting, her bag on her knees, an ever so slight note of terror in her upward-turned gaze. Still, her demeanor was dominated by the calm that had already stood out to him on the photo. Again, Mr. Smoothbore's heart stirred, but as before, the feeling passed in a flash. He was well aware that these ripples of emotion were surfacing from somewhere in the depths of his soul and he could not ignore the regret of feeling them fade.
The spaceship streaked across the sky, soon disappearing beyond the western horizon. All that remained of it was a strange blue afterglow, shining in the west. Then everything again faded to the dim light of dusk that seemed to reignite the splendid glow of the distant city.
Mr. Smoothbore's mind returned to the puzzle at hand: Thirteen of the world's most wealthy individuals wanted to kill three of the world's poorest. It was beyond absurd. In fact, it exceeded the powers of his imagination. But before the train of his thoughts could continue down this track, he violently pulled his mind's emergency brake. Slapping the steering wheel in self-directed scorn, Mr. Smoothbore reprimanded himself for violating one of his trade's highest ideals. The headmaster's words floated back into his mind, reminding him of his profession's maxim:
“The gun does not care at whom it is aimed.”
Mr. Smoothbore still had no idea where the institute would be, not even in which country he would study. All he knew was that the plane's first destination was Moscow. Once he landed he was picked up by something that approximated a welcoming committee. The strangers spoke English without any trace of a Russian accent. They had him don a pair of completely blacked-out sunglasses, disguising him as a blind man as they took him on a journey through the dark. He boarded another plane and flew for more than three hours; then he was in a car for a day. Only when that journey was over did he finally arrive at the institute. He had no way of knowing where he was – he may well even have left Russia. What he could tell, was that the institute was located deep in the mountains and that it was surrounded by high walls. Under no circumstances were the students to leave the premises before graduating.
Free of the blacked-out glasses, Mr. Smoothbore soon discovered that the institute’s buildings were divided into two groups: One was made up of gray buildings, completely lacking in any distinguishing features, while the other group of structures was remarkable in both color and shape. He soon learned that the latter were in fact like giant building blocks that could be reassembled into all manner of configurations, producing an infinite variety of firing ranges. In essence, the whole of the institute was nothing more than a particularly spacious and well-equipped firing range.
The institute’s opening ceremony was the only time all of its students were gathered in one place. There were just over 400 of them. At the ceremony, the institute’s silver-haired headmaster himself addressed his students. He had the air of a classic scholar about him, instantly commanding universal respect and reverence. With a strong and clear voice he introduced those gathered to the journey ahead.
“Students, in the coming four years you will learn the theoretical knowledge and practical skills of our profession,” he told them. “It is a profession that will never be named and one of humanity's oldest, yet it can look forward to an even still brighter future. On the small scale, it can resolve problems for a client that can only be removed by us; on the large scale, it can change the very course of history.
“In the past, a variety of political organizations have offered us significant sums to train guerrilla groups. We always refused. We educate independent specialists; no one else. Independent, that is, of everything but money. From this day on, you should think of yourself as a gun. Your duty is to function as a gun. Realize the beauty of the gun and realize that the gun does not care at whom it is aimed. A holds the gun and uses it to shoot B; B takes the very same gun and uses it to shoot A. It makes no difference to the gun and it carries out both duties with the highest level of excellence. That is the very essence of our professional ethics.”
During the ceremony, Mr. Smoothbore learned the most common terms of his new trade: The assignment itself was called “processing”, the target of an assignment was called the “work”, and its death was called “cooling”.
The institute trained students in the “L”, “M” and “S” specialties. These three letters were shorthand for long, medium and short range.
The “L” specialty was the most esoteric and its tuition fee was exorbitant. Only a select few were enrolled in the L courses and they did not associate with the students of other specialties. Mr. Smoothbore's instructor also advised them to stay clear of the L specialists. “They are our nobility and they hold the greatest power among us to alter the course of history,” he explained.
The knowledge of the L specialists was wide-ranging and profound and the sniper rifles they employed cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Fully assembled, these weapons were more than six feet long. The L specialists usually processed their work at ranges of over half a mile and it was said that they could even go as far as two miles out. Working at a mile's range was a complex operation. In the preliminary phase, a series of so-called “wind-chimes” would be set up along the range. These “chimes” were finely crafted, miniature anemometers, capable of providing precise measurements and wirelessly transmitting their readings back to the shooter. The data was displayed on a monitor, revealing the exact wind speeds and directions prevalent along the entire range of the shot.
“M” specialists processed their work at a distance of 50 to 1000 feet. M was the most traditional specialty and boasted the most students. At this range, ordinary guns were the tools of the trade. While the M specialty was the most widely employed, it was also considered prosaic and lacking in mystique.
Mr. Smoothbore was an “S” student, learning to work at ranges closer than 50 feet. The requirements for S weapons were the least stringent. At this range pistols were common, but they could also resort to blades and more obscure implements to get the job done. Amongst the three specialties, S was without doubt the most dangerous, but it was also the most romantic. The headmaster was a grand master in this specialty and personally taught S courses. His first lesson, however, came as a complete surprise: It was English literature.
“You must first understand the values of the S specialty,” the headmaster solemnly instructed them, carefully watching his students' baffled faces. “In the L and M specialties, the processor and the work never meet. To the very last moment, the work remains completely unaware of its situation and of the fact that they are being processed and cooled. This is, of course, very fortunate for them, but less so for the client. A fair amount of clients require that the work, prior to cooling, be made aware of why and by whom they wer
e marked for processing. We are the ones who tell the work these things. As we do so, we must transcend ourselves and become the client. We must aim to communicate the client's final message to the work in a consummate and dignified manner, allowing the work to feel the greatest possible level of shock and torment before cooling. This is the beauty and romanticism of the S specialty: The absolute terror in the eyes of the work before cooling. It is the greatest sanctification we can possibly derive from our labors. But to achieve this end, we must achieve a considerable command of both the skill of communication and knowledge of literature.”
So Mr. Smoothbore studied literature for a year. He studied Homer's epics, recited Shakespeare and read many other works of classical and contemporary authors. It was somewhat to Mr. Smoothbore's surprise when he realized that this year was probably the most productive of his entire time spent studying abroad. He already knew bits and pieces of all the other things he learned later and eventually he would have mastered the details. A deeper understanding of literature, on the other hand, that was a singular opportunity. Through literature he rediscovered humanity and came to admire the delicate and complicated nature of the human condition. Before, killing someone was like breaking a crude pot filled with reddish liquid. Now, he was pleasantly surprised to find that what he broke was actually the finest jade. This greatly enhanced the pleasure of the kill.
His next course was human anatomy. The S specialty had an advantage over the other two in that it could control the speed at which the work was cooled during processing. The technical terms for this were “rapid” and “delayed” cooling. Many clients requested that their work receive delayed cooling and that the process be videotaped as a keepsake for their private pleasure. Naturally, this required a great deal of artistic proficiency and experience. The study of human anatomy was indispensable in working toward this goal.
Then, the real courses toward his specialty began.
The people picking garbage on the landfill slowly dispersed, leaving only a few stragglers, his mark among them. Mr. Smoothbore decided then and there to process this work tonight. The conventions of his professions demanded that he not commence action during the initial observation, but there were exceptions if an opportunity like this presented itself.
Mr. Smoothbore maneuvered his car out from under the overpass and along the bumpy road toward the landfill. Stopping the vehicle at the edge of the waste mountain, he studied the only path by which the scavengers could exit the landfill. The road was shrouded in darkness, revealing little beyond weeds indistinctly swaying in the night wind. Mr. Smoothbore chose this spot to wait for his work; it was a fantastic place for processing.
He drew his gun and placed it on the car's dashboard. It was a crude, snub-nose revolver, capable of accepting 7.62 x 25 mm caliber bullets. This ammunition, known as “Black Star”, was widely used in the criminal underworld and was easy to obtain. The weapon had no serial or branding, having been privately manufactured. He had bought the fully functional and in every way practical package for 3000 yuan on the black market in Xishuangbanna in the far south of China. Even though it was undeniably ugly, the gun was well-made, each component precision fit. Its most significant drawback was that the hardest part of the manufacturing process had been left undone: The inside of the gun's barrel was smooth metal, lacking any form of rifling. It wasn’t that Mr. Smoothbore did not have a better, branded weapon. The Honored Brother Crosscut had even provided him with a 32-round Uzi when he first started working as a bodyguard and had later given him a Type 77 pistol for his birthday, but Mr. Smoothbore kept them stuffed away, never once carrying either weapon. He simply enjoyed his snub-nose. Now, it glinted coldly in the distant light of the city, letting his thoughts drift back to his years at the institute.
The day that the specialist training commenced, the headmaster had demanded each student show his or her weapon. Back then he had felt a keen sense of embarrassment as he placed his snub-nose next to all the other exquisite, high quality arms. The headmaster, however, had picked it up and carefully studied the weapon. His voice had been full of sincere admiration as he praised it. “This is a good one.”
“Its barrel isn't even rifled and it won't accept a silencer,” a student had commented scornfully.
“The S specialty requires only a minimum of accuracy and range from a weapon; rifling matters little to us. And a silencer?” the headmaster said. “Why not simply use a small pillow? Boy, do not let yourself be trapped by hackneyed convention. In the hands of a master, this pistol can create art that none of those expensive toys can dream of achieving.”
The headmaster was right, of course; because of its lack of rifling, the bullets fired by the snub-nose tumbled and spun as they cut through the air, unleashing an entirely unusual, bone-chilling scream. The bullet continued to spin even after hitting the work, cutting through the body like a buzz-saw.
“From now on, we will call you Mr. Smoothbore!” the headmaster had said, handing the gun back to him. “Master it well, boy; it will be just like learning to throw a knife.”
Mr. Smoothbore had understood immediately: A knife master throws the knife by its blade, giving it the most powerful spin and the best chance to strike the target with its tip. The headmaster obviously wanted Mr. Smoothbore to master firing bullets from his snub-nose in just this way! If he managed, he would be able to ensure that his bullets inflicted the deepest and most intense wounds possible. Two years of diligent practice and roughly 30,000 bullets later, Mr. Smoothbore finally perfected the skill. His success was somewhat of a surprise all around; even the institute's best shooting instructors had considered it impossible.
During his studies abroad, Mr. Smoothbore became completely inseparable from his snub-nose revolver. In his fourth year, he came to know a fellow S specialty student by the name of Ms. Flame – probably because to her fiery red hair. The institute being what it was, he of course never learned her nationality, but he could guess that she was from somewhere in Western Europe. There were only a few women in the course and almost all were natural sharpshooters. Ms. Flame's aim, however, was awful and her dagger skills not much better. In fact, at first Mr. Smoothbore had no idea what exactly it was that she had done before coming there. In their first garroting class, however, she pulled a barely visible wire from a delicate ring on one of her fingers. She wrapped this wire around the neck of the training goat with practiced ease and with a tug, the razor sharp wire neatly decapitated the animal. According to Ms. Flame, the wire was a nano-thread, a super-strong material that in the future might be used to build a space elevator.
Ms. Flame did not really love Mr. Smoothbore; that would have never been possible there anyway. Beside Mr. Smoothbore, she also hung out with a Nordic man from another course, known Mr. Icewolf. She constantly harped on about it, trying to provoke the two men. Her ultimate goal was to prod them into a duel. There was little depth to her machinations; all she really wanted was to break the monotony of their classes. It did not take her long to succeed, however, and Mr. Smoothbore and Mr. Icewolf had challenged each other to a game of Russian roulette. In deepest night, the entire class gathered at the shooting range and rearranged its components to form a decent replica of the Coliseum. The duel was to take place in the center of this arena. The weapon of choice was the snub-nose and Ms. Flame would act as the referee. With an elegant flourish, she inserted one bullet into the empty drum of the revolver. Then, holding the barrel in her slender hands, she gave the chamber a good dozen spins. Finally, she presented the gun to the two of them. Both modestly forfeited their chance to go first. With a smile Ms. Flame handed the snub-nose to Mr. Smoothbore.
Mr. Smoothbore slowly lifted the gun, raising its ice cold barrel straight to his temple. A wave of emptiness and loneliness, stronger and stranger than anything he had ever felt, washed over him. He felt a formless, icy wind rush through the entire world, chilling everything. Only his heart remained, the last point of heat in a cold cosmos. His heart hardened and he pulled t
he trigger.
Five times. Five times the gun's hammer fell. Five times the chamber turned. At no time did the gun fire. Click, click, click, click, click.
The five-fold sound of metal striking metal was Mr. Icewolf's death knell. Shouts and applause rose from the gathered class. Crying tears of overflowing joy, Ms. Flame told Mr. Smoothbore that she was his.
In the midst of all the laughter and elation, Mr. Icewolf stood. Nodding toward Mr. Smoothbore, he said, “My Asian friend, there's been no better wager, not since the very first Colt was made.” His voice rang with an intense sincerity. He turned to Ms. Flame. “Never mind love; life is just a gamble anyway.”
With that he picked up the snub-nose and raised it to his head. With a muffled explosion, blood and bone-chip flared like an elegant flower, blooming from his skull.
Not long after that, Mr. Smoothbore graduated. Again, he was made to wear darkened glasses as he left this nameless institute and returned to his home. He never again heard of the institute. It was as if it had never existed at all.
Returning to the outside world, Mr. Smoothbore learned of a major event that had changed the world: The Gods had arrived to accept support and provision from the humans they had once cultivated. But to the disappointment of humanity, they left after little more than a year, their 20,000 ships vanishing into the depths of the universe.
Mr. Smoothbore was barely off his plane home when he received his first processing contract.
The Honored Brother Crosscut warmly welcomed him home, arranging a luxurious dinner in his honor. At the dinner, Mr. Smoothbore requested to speak with Crosscut in private.
