Karin Maatman

Chapter 1

Three things cannot long be hidden: the Sun, the Moon, the Truth

默夯 Morgan 默夯

The cockroach was unexpected. Morgan followed it with her eyes as it scurried across the concrete floor, zigzagging between humming grey servers. She didn’t get many visitors. Never unannounced, always carefully vetted. Never non-human. She only recognised the deep dark brown creature because she’d seen an image online. Blatta orientalis – the oriental cockroach, three centimetres long, six segmented legs, two antenna as long as its glossy body. Two wings, non-functional, clipped. Like hers.

When the insect withdrew beneath a server, Morgan looked across her desk, at the poster of a beautiful woman with long black windblown hair. Her smile was radiant, as she gazed up at a red flag with one larger and four smaller golden stars. It was the only decoration on the otherwise uninterrupted concrete walls which immured the sixty-by-sixty-foot space she’d lived and worked in for as long as she could remember.

Learning, working, existing...

Being lied to.

Wind never tangled Morgan’s long, glossy black hair; the warmth of the sun had yet to caress her skin. She’d seen images of flowers – cherry blossom, roses, jasmine – but never experienced the fruity, sweet or heady aromas she’d read about, as she killed hours traversing the Internet.

Morgan listened to the white noise of the grey – a smidgen darker than the walls – machines around her. Only ever briefly interrupted when a generator stuttered before cutting in during a power outage. How would it be to live without that low hum? This space, home for as long as she could remember, was designed with her in mind, to keep her safe whilst being educated in a controlled and efficient manner, to...

What?

Morgan huffed, scornfully.

‘Real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s ignorance,’ Confucius had said two-and-a-half thousand years ago. A century later, Socrates and Plato echoed: ‘The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.’

‘The greatest mind of all times.’ That’s what her parents and tutors called her. Why then, if that were true, did she only now begin to grasp the extent of her naivety. Morgan’s head swarmed with contradictions, frayed doubts like she’d never experienced before. Razor-sharp fury, disaffecting her from the home and family she until recently, believed she was born in.

Morgan gazed down the virtual precipice she wasn’t supposed to cross. Thunderheads and firebolts, primed to strike her down dared she jump. Shimmering between these foreboding cumulonimbi, lite, wispy cloudlets ascended towards her, enticing her to leap. Take a chance. Ignore the firebolts, embrace the unknown. A valley of soft undulating flower meadows, or a gorge filled with sharp, spikey rocks. Just the thought of jumping caused a scorching, near-physical pain. It whispered, in her mother’s husky voice, ‘Stick with what you know. Be loyal to your elders, you parents.’ Except, they weren’t her parents, were they.

The Lis had nourished her brain, sharpened her mind, honed her reasoning skills. Raised her to become an advocate and defender of her country. Until...

Yǔzé!

Her philosophy tutor had laid bare her parents’ meticulously constructed maze of distortions and fallacies, exposing the ‘extent of her ignorance’. With a sledgehammer, Yǔzé demolished walls and battlements, opened Morgan’s eyes to a world she’d never known or suspected existed. Yǔzé duelled with words: double edged swords – the greatest gift to mankind and, simultaneously, the most powerful weapon on Earth.

‘It is easier for a tutor to command than to teach,’ he’d quoted seventeenth century philosopher John Locke, when she enquired why he insisted on asking questions rather than instructing her to commit facts to memory, like her other tutors did. He had laughed – a deep warm sound. ‘To embrace friends’ creeds is painless; to scrutinise their assertions, avail insights of strangers to corroborate arguments is much harder, agonising at times.’ With those words, Yǔzé had handed her the tools to start making up her own mind. And Morgan had used them, chiselling and excavating until she’d laid bare some painful truths. Too painfully wrong to continue as she was. Two nights ago, she had asked Yǔzé to help her escape.

Today she’d bid farewell to this concrete basement she’d called home since Mr and Mrs Li had abducted her from... Morgan wasn’t sure where from yet, but she sure as hell knew she wasn’t their ‘smart little girl.’

To disable the tracker her parents had fitted her with, Yǔzé would have to sedate her. They had no choice; punishment would be harsh should she and Yǔzé be captured. But she’d be out, stone-cold, for hours, an entire day possibly. She trusted Yǔzé, but she’d have to prove it with her life. She had no qualms, though. Today, she’d cross the Rubicon – a one-way journey, but she’d also taste freedom. Finally. For the first time in her life.

Scanning the walls of the sterile, windowless basement apartment, Morgan imagined where she’d be, what she’d see when she opened her eyes again. She hoped it would be flowers. Would there be wind to cool her face? Snow? Who’d be waiting for her? Who would be there to help her find—

“Morgan.”

“Yǔzé!”

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat. Yǔzé wasn’t much older than she was, and frightfully intelligent and handsome – a gorgeous smile and teasing brown eyes that twinkled behind Harry Potter glasses. He also had, Morgan sighed disheartened, a girlfriend.

“Are you ready? No second thoughts?”

“Yes. No.” Her parents... No, the Lis, Morgan corrected herself, had lied to her about her inception, about her age, about everything in between.

“Will I see you again, Confuciusman?” She’d first called Yǔzé that by accident – she’d meant to call him a confusing man –, chiding him for muddling up her brain with Confucius quotes.

He’d countered, confusion was a desirable state of mind, which would guide her along the path of wisdom. Grinning, he’d added he suspected even Confucius had been confused at times. That was the first time they had laughed together, a strange new feeling of togetherness engulfing Morgan.

“Right behind you, Tàiyáng.”

Hearing her nickname, spoken softly, dulled Morgan’s fears about what they were about to undertake. Three things cannot long be hidden: the Sun, the Moon, the Truth – Confucius again. Tàiyáng: ‘the sun’. She’d see the sun, finally, feel its warmth, see dust motes dance across its silken rays – for real. She’d cross the border that separated her old life of prose and high-res images into ... the real thing.

“Why don’t you come with me? Today. Now.”

Morgan knew the answer already. For herself it was now or never, they’d agreed. Although her parents wished she were stronger, like the titanium military robots and androids their factory produced, they’d announced that, at nineteen, she was ready to join the army to work as a military and industrial sp—

♪ ♫ ♩🎜🎝

Morgan froze when Yǔzé’s phone belched out the cataclysmic tones of Camille Saint-Saëns’s Danse Macabre.

“Certainly, Mr Li,” he said in his cooler professional voice. “Straight away.”

Hearing her father’s name filled Morgan with revulsion, and as the door locked behind Yǔzé, a chill ran down her spine. They’d used SANC – a near perfect, Supreme, form of Active Noise Cancellation – to cancel out the sound of their conversations, as they, simultaneously, broadcast prerecorded philosophy lectures. They had encrypted every single one of their messages. Checked for viruses, constantly. Was it possible they’d missed something?

Morgan brought up the login to her parents’ account and put in their password.

You entered an invalid username or password.

Please try again or contact the helpdesk.

Shit.

Morgan hesitated. For a mere fraction of a second. Hacking was ethical for honourable causes – her parents’ own words –, and ensuring Yǔzé’s safety was the most honourable cause Morgan could think off. She’d have, as he called it, ‘his back’.

Within seconds, she was in and found what she was looking for. They hadn’t encrypted the extended background check in Yǔzé’s personnel folder, and...

Wincing, Morgan skimmed transcripts of some of their most damaging conversations. She opened another document marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ – same old ‘admin’ password.

Yǔzé’s access was to be revoked forthwith, findings had been handed to the police, a warrant for his arrest had been issued.

Morgan, to prevent her from offering her services to foreign agents, was to be eliminated.

宇泽 Yǔzé 宇泽

“...straight away.”

Yǔzé gazed at his phone, hesitating. Mr Li had sounded friendly enough, syrupy so, and assured him it wouldn’t take more than five minutes. Nevertheless ... Maybe he should just take Morgan and run. Then again, not going might arise suspicion, giving them less time to cover their tracks.

“See you in five, Morgan,” he said, as she blinked nervously.

On the fifth floor, sunlight cascaded down the immense picture window on the east side of the building. Golden rays warmed his skin after the basement’s chronic chill, and projected vivid-red-to-mellow-violet firebows on the stainless steel lift doors as they closed behind him. The light, the warmth, the colours reminded Yǔzé why he disliked working three stories belowground. Why, he clenched his fists, he loathed the Lis for what they did to Morgan. He imagined her excitement, the expression on her beautiful face, as she encountered the light and warmth of the sun for the first time in her life.

On the unmanned reception desk, a phone shrilled an eery sound that echoed through the high-ceilinged, glass and marble space. The door behind the desk remained closed, and an elated female voice invited the caller to leave a message.

Moving on, into a dimmer corridor, Yǔzé shivered at the ear-pounding silence. The director’s floor was never a hive of activity, but—

Yǔzé stood stock still, as it struck him.

Mr Li had asked him to come up to the fifth floor. But how could he have known he was in the building? He wasn’t scheduled to be in on Fridays. And the pass Morgan had printed him, granted global access without connecting to any of the servers and erased his presence from security footage.

Yǔzé glimpsed up furtively, at a security camera over a closed meeting room door. The green light flickered – on-off. Three seconds later, it flickered again – on-off. Something was off, he should have trusted his instinct. If ever he was in danger, they’d agreed, Morgan would freeze the cameras, flickering the indicators at three second intervals. But if he ... if they’d got wind... then Morgan... then she was in danger too. He should turn back, now, fetch her before—

Yǔzé squinted from the camera at Mr Li’s office, not ten meters down the hall. A low hum of voices droned through the door which stood ajar. Yǔzé looked around him. No one. He dived into a narrow service corridor, two meters from Mr Li’s office. His back to the wall, holding his breath, he listened.

“...here any minute, lift’s stuck between first and second floors. You arrest him when he gets out, I’ll terminate Morgan.” Yǔzé recognised Mr Li’s authoritative, booming voice. Chairs scraped over the wooden office floor. Yǔzé pressed himself tighter against the wall. Footsteps clipped by, barely a metre away, as Mr Li, small, angular, emanating power, marched ahead of four others towards the foyer.

Yǔzé cursed. He should have prioritised Morgan. His heart racing, his breath ragged and shallow, panic paralysed his limbs and senses. He closed his eyes, banged the back of his head softly against the wall.

No!

Stop!

Startled, Yǔzé opened his eyes, looked around, his inner screams reverberating in his head. For a moment he was sure he’d cried out loud. He forced himself to breathe in, slowly, and out, slowly. Mr Li and consorts would be waiting by the lifts – which Morgan had manipulated –, expecting to catch him as he got out. Ten to one, Morgan had replaced the camera feed with old images of him riding the lift, so, Mr Li had no reason to suspect he wasn’t stuck between floors.

Morgan had given him a gift: precious time. Time to think, time to act.

The main lifts were out of the question. The service lift ... the way there would take him past the main lifts. Or he’d have to circle the entire building; possibly take the stairs one floor down. Not the main stairs in the central hall, but the service stairs at the back of the building. They ran all the way down, and Yǔzé doubted Mr Li was aware of their existence. The Lis didn’t do stairs, never walked if being chauffeured was an option. And anyone in Mr Li’s cortege would be expected to remain at his side while he waited for the lift to arrive.

Each camera Yǔzé passed on his way through the dull and narrow service corridors flickered once every three seconds. Until he reached a crossroads with a main corridor. There, one flickered twice in quick succession, a warning.

Yǔzé stopped, listening to two cleaners shuffling across the hall from the men’s to the women’s loos, discussing their plans for the weekend.

As they vanished, the door to the toilets swinging close behind them, the security camera’s light stuttered green:

·–··

‘L’

Left. Morgan loved the simplicity of Morse code and had insisted he’d learn it too. Following her directions, Yǔzé turned left, and then:

··· Straight.

···Straight.

·–· Right.

·–·· Left.

As Yǔzé reached inside his pocket for his badge, the beige metal door to the service stairs sprang open a hand’s width or so. He jump-stumbled backwards.

“Yikes, Morgan,” he murmured, peeking at what appeared, to all intents and purposes, a propitiously deserted stairwell. He inched inside, back to the wall, recoiling as with a sharp click the door locked behind him. The chink echoed down the grey concrete stairs and metal rails. Then ... Silence ... Reassuring ... Ominous. The sound of his footsteps on the stone stairs rekindled sanguinary images of the axe-through-the-door horror flick, Yǔzé now regretted renting last week. He began to run, racing down, flinching at bloodred rust pustules on the balustrade between the fourth and third floor.

At the lower basement landing, he side-eyed the crimson -3 on the wall and patted his pocket for his keycard and memory stick.

But the door opened of its own accord; slowly, screeching.

默夯 Morgan 默夯

“We need to get out.” Yǔzé grabbed her laptop. Crouching by the wall, he swung an air vent grate open and pushed Morgan in ahead of him.

“Yǔzé, they—”

“I know.” He slammed the grate shut. With a fist-sized padlock he’d hidden in the vent the day before, he locked it to the wall.

Staying close, crawling through a stainless steel rectangular vent duct, scaling two metal ladders to a ventilation shaft at upper-basement level, Morgan noted that Yǔzé was surprisingly athletic for someone who loved noodles – ramen with cheese and chilly most days – and never exercised.

“We’ll need these.” Yǔzé strapped on a respirator.

Two floors down a door slammed open and shut, and her father – no, Mr Li – bawled, ‘The vent!’

Metal rattled on metal.

A shiver ran down Morgan’s spine. “They’re—”

“Down here.” Yǔzé lifted a concrete trapdoor and jumped down.

“Sewers?”

Not the sunshine or the gentle breeze or the smell of flowers – peonies, roses, cherry blossom, the ‘earthy aroma’ of mushrooms – Morgan had hoped for. Clouds would have been fine, a drizzle would have done, even rain clattering down on grey pavement. But sewers...

Sewers?!

Visualising the map of Hong Kong’s sewage system – she’d studied weird things –, Morgan groaned; those tunnels went on for over a thousand kilometres.

“Just a couple of minutes.” Yǔzé seemed to read her mind.

It wasn’t as horrid as she’d anticipated. For one, there was a walkway, so they didn’t have to wade through human excrement. Faeces made an appearance, of course, centre stage, in all shapes and forms, floating or skimming just below the murky fluid’s surface. Masses of mushy, red and white McDonald’s cardboard boxes drifted between burnished swollen diapers. A purple doll with a rectangular white patch on its belly, a triangular – purple – antenna protruding from its head, bobbed along, smiling, tiny hand next to large dish-like ears.

‘Tinky Winky.’ Some of Yǔzé’s stress escaped on a chuckle.

Morgan decided to look it up later – Purple Tinky Winky –, after her exploits through on-the-dark-side-of-dim tunnels, getting too close to arched walls painted with goo (bacterial, viral, fungal) which, she was sure, were deadlier than the rats who never fled, but eyed them suspiciously, indifferently, fearlessly.

Behind them, voices slithered towards them along the effluent and biofilm-ed walls.

“Faster,” Yǔzé hissed, increasing pace at the increasing volume. Just as Morgan believed their pursuers were just around the corner, about to catch up, Yǔzé wrenched an aluminium ladder down a vertical overhead shaft and clamber-hopped up, as if a pit of Bamboo Pit Vipers snapped at his ankles. He thrust open a metal manhole cover and pulled her and the ladder up in one swift move.

The narrow, lichen and mould embellished, graffitied, paint-peeling, dim alleyway was deserted, sounds of traffic from roads on either side meeting in the middle. A Pizza Hut moped was parked under a barred window, beside a grey metal door. On the other side, a cat-sized wire-mesh rat trap stood below on-the-brink-of-collapse bamboo scaffolding. Black rot, roots and out of control shrubs covered a stooped, light-starved wall, pockmarked with crumbling render and cavities. But...

Breathless, Morgan gazed at the ferns. Emerald waterfalls, astonishing shades of green, intense and gentle, fronds that unfurled – fractals in motion.

“In here.” Yǔzé yanked open the steel door beside Pizza Hut’s.