“What’s so funny?”
“We’ve won! That idiot Sun has talked Beijing into paying me a hundred million American.”
“I told you Cole took the bombs out of the Yorks,” Kent said. “We can’t sabotage them. There is nothing we can do even to slow the rebels.”
Sonny grinned pleasantly. “I know that and you know that,” he said, “but the ministers in Beijing don’t. By the time they figure out that we have done nothing to earn the money it will be too late. The money will be in my bank and they will be unable to reverse the transaction.”
Sonny Wong laughed awhile, then poured himself a drink of good single-malt Scotch whiskey and lit a cigarette.
Damn, he felt good.
Too bad about Yuri. Too bad about the restaurant and the yacht. Grafton and Cole had screwed everything up and cost him some serious money. Before he left Hong Kong tomorrow he should probably settle that score.
But tonight, a drink. A laugh. One hundred million from the Communists in Beijing and ten million from their archenemy, Rip Buckingham’s old man down under.
A good score, any way you looked at it.
Ha ha ha!
“Here’s to revolution, wherever and whenever,” Sonny Wong said and lifted his glass.
Rip Buckingham accompanied the rebels following the Yorks north on Nathan Road. He stopped to watch technicians service the Yorks, replace batteries, replenish ammo, oil and lubricate them. He looked over the herd of prisoners sitting in the center of the street — they didn’t seem unhappy — then he went looking for Lin Pe.
He found his mother-in-law just where the controller said she was, in the entrance to the alley a block west of the Nathan-Waterloo intersection. The street was filled with a happy, joyous crowd, everyone talking at once. The glare of numerous small fires that the celebrants had built in the center of the streets lit the scene.
Rip sat down beside her. The old woman looked exhausted.
“We have won,” he told her. “The PLA soldiers are surrendering by the hundreds, by the thousands.”
“They really did not want to fight,” Lin Pe said. “I could see that in their faces. Their officers made them fight.”
They sat together watching the rebels stream up Nathan Road and turn east, heading for the army base. From where they sat they could see one of the still-smoking tank hulks. When the breeze gave them a whiff, the smoke smelled of burning diesel fuel and rubber, a nauseating combination.
“Why are you here?” Lin Pe demanded. “Why are you not writing this story for the world? That is your job.”
“Sue Lin was worried. She wanted me to come. Since I love you both, I could not refuse.”
After a moment to collect his thoughts, Rip said, “Wu was rescued earlier this evening. He is leading the rebels now. He was just here a little while ago, organizing the rebel forces. He led them up Waterloo Road toward the army base.”
Lin Pe nodded. She had heard the news that Wu was alive and with the rebels earlier this evening from the girl taking cell phone calls. She didn’t say that to Rip, though; she was so tired. And content.
In the midst of this raucous, happy crowd she could feel the common thread of humanity that ran down the long centuries of Chinese history from the unknowable past, through the present, into the unknowable future. Dynasties, wars, famines, babies born, and old people buried — these living people surrounding her now, filling the streets, were the sum of all that had ever been, and in their spirits and bodies they carried the future, all that would ever be.
She rested her head on her knees. With her eyes closed she could see her parents’ faces as they were when she was very young, could remember the wonder she felt when she saw the sun rise on a misty morning, with the earth pungent and fresh after a night’s rain. She remembered her husband, his face, the way he touched her, the feeling she had that their children were life the way it should be — these memories washed over her now, swept her along.
Lin Pe got out her notebook and wrote, “You are mankind.”
She stared at the words, trying to decide if she had captured the nub of it.
Beside the first sentence she wrote, “You are the past and the future.”
She gave it one last try: “Do not despair — life is happening as it should.”
Sun Siu Ki’s mood was just the opposite of Lin Pe’s. His world was crashing in on him. The rebels owned Hong Kong Island. They had the only television and radio stations still operating in the S.A.R. and were filling the airways with their capitalist, imperialist filth. Rebels were in control at the airfield on Lantau and at the naval base. With six robots and an armed mob, they defeated the trained troops Colonel Soong had put in the field. In fact, the only real estate the government still controlled in the Hong Kong S.A.R. was the army base.
All this, Sun reflected, was a local disaster, like a fire or an earthquake. It was just his bad fortune to be here when it happened. Certainly his friends in Beijing would understand.
The only ray of sunshine in this miasma of doom was the certain knowledge that the huge Chinese army, armed with weapons featuring the latest technology — some of it purchased from the Russians and the rest stolen from the Americans — would in the fullness of time crush these rebels like a tidal wave coming ashore, overwhelming all in its path.
Six robots? Untrained civilians with captured rifles and limited ammunition? Amateur officers? They didn’t stand a chance.
The sky to the east was pink with the coming dawn when Colonel Soong faced the brooding governor.
“The base is surrounded,” the colonel said. “The rebels have completely encircled the perimeter of the base.”
Sun got out of his chair and made his way to the map table. Grease marks on the map told the story.
“I have been begging Beijing to launch an air strike,” Sun said. “Perhaps our comrades will deliver us.”
The colonel didn’t reply. He was fed up with wishful thinking.
“Will they attack?” Sun asked, referring to the rebels. “Unless we surrender.”
“Surrender?”
“They have not yet demanded our surrender, but we must consider it. They may attack without asking, or they ask and attack if we refuse.”
“Why not use your artillery? You know where they are — hammer them into the earth.”
“While we are hammering they will attack. There are too many people out there, Governor, for us to stop them.”
Sun was incredulous. “What? A few thousand armed civilians against your trained soldiers?”
“We have about three thousand fighting men left on the base, counting every able-bodied man. My officers estimate there are more than two hundred thousand people outside the fence just now. Even if we set about slaughtering them with machine guns and artillery, they can push the fence down and overwhelm us before we kill them all.”
Sun didn’t believe it and said so. Soong took him to an observation tower to see for himself.
With the sun peeping over the earth’s rim, Sun forced his tired legs to climb the stairs. From three stories up on the open-air platform near the parade ground — a structure normally used to train paratroops and review military parades — one could see the main gate and the road beyond and several hundred yards of the base fence.
The situation was as the colonel had presented it. Sun found himself staring at a sea of humanity. The people weren’t under cover — they were standing and sitting almost shoulder-to-shoulder. People! In every direction, as far as he could see.
A soft moan of despair escaped the governor. He closed his eyes, swayed as he hung on to the railing.
He took time to compose himself, then said, “It would be a political and propaganda disaster if the rebels were to capture me. We mustn’t take that risk. Order a helicopter warmed up.”