Page 46 of Air Force One
That left three giants in the ring—an operating system provider, a retail monster, an overly invasive search engine. They bore clear parallels to China’s mythological giants Pangu, Kuafu, and Xingtian. Pangu created the world. Kuafu chased the sun to capture it, dying in the pursuit. Xingtian was the unyielding fighter, battling on after he was slain. To her, Microsoft embodied the creator, Amazon the overly ambitious pursuit of shiny objects, and Google the unyielding determination to control all the world’s user data. More importantly, all three modern giants delved deep, deep, deep into creating cutting-edge AI.
She and Mui agreed that’s where the ultimate power of the future lay. They had started their American journey in Seattle, Washington, so it was only logical to merely shift across Lake Washington. They joined Microsoft, the biggest of the three, as the best platform to launch their future plans from.
We can’t be seen going straight to the jugular vein, Mui had counseled. She was always the thoughtful one. Given the chance, Mei-Li was far more likely to tear down the front door. So they’d found her a different path, one that fit her better anyway. She was no coder, but with her independent study master’s degree at the intersection of psychology, political theory, and economic game theory, she’d already proven herself to be a virtuoso strategist in their gaming division. In only her second year aboard, she’d been brought in on the development side of their next big showpiece.
Chang Mui, sweet Mui, with a gentle smile that could melt even Mei-Li’s hardened heart, had applied her incisive mind and MBA to becoming one of the assistants to the Director of the AI division.
The Friday let’s-get-next-week-preplanned meeting had run long and been atypically contentious. Senior management’s unexpected presence meant that Mei-Li hadn’t ripped everyone a new one for indulging in large doses of ego and raw stupidity as she’d wanted to. At the moment Mei-Li hated the world at large and far too many others to list. Senior management was worse than an infestation of weasels. She didn’t want to go home to Mui in such a mood, but she’d promised the exact opposite—when she was in such a mood, she must go to Chang Mui.
“I’m here!” It took all her will not to hammer the door of their townhouse shut. Between their salaries, they could have easily afforded more. There had also been the startling amount that had appeared in their American bank accounts with no explanation. It hadn’t taken long to form a hypothesis.
General Zhang Ru had owned Mei-Li for years, giving her body to whomever he needed favors from. He’d used her to scrabble his way onto the Central Military Commission, then, two years ago, he’d abruptly disappeared and never been heard from again. He must have crossed General Liú, but they hadn’t been able to confirm that. Mei-Li still had nightmares of Zhang Ru suddenly appearing at the door of their Redmond, Washington, condo and demanding what little shreds he’d left of her soul. Someone had stripped him of his fortunes and sent a portion of it to Mei-Li—perhaps Mui’s grandfather General Liú.
However the small fortune had arrived, they had both lived in China for their first two decades. Neither of them would ever be comfortable with the crass consumerism of the massive homes that fellow Softies purchased up on the plateau to the west of town. A townhouse with kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms—one for them and one for their home computers—was all they needed.
Mui must have seen Mei-Li’s schedule and anticipated her mood. She was already in the kitchen cooking Mu Shu Pork—Mei-Li’s favorite. She wrapped her arms around Mui’s waist from behind and rested her chin on Mui’s shoulder to watch her cook.
“Remember the proverb.”
She sighed and, stepping away, boosted herself up to sit on an unused section of counter. “Before setting out on revenge, dig two graves.”
Mui nodded without turning.
“I survived Zhang Ru, thank the gods he’s probably dead.” The general had enslaved her after she’d aged out of the national gymnastics program. Aged out or been cast out for only winning a silver at the Olympics? She’d transcended being ripped from her family at the age of three to enter the program—or liked to pretend to herself that she had. But by nine she’d become the coach’s personal pet in all the worst ways. Then— She buried her face in her hands and tried to peel off the black shadow and cast it aside. The action helped only a little.
“And how did you survive Zhang Ru?” Mui tossed the thin-sliced pork in the soy-hoisin-wine marinade and began chopping vegetables. She made it look like artwork. Mei-Li’s efforts tended to look like someone had run a lawnmower through the produce.
“By letting events take their natural course.” Someone else had silenced Ru for her. If she ever found out who, she’d kiss their feet.
“Precisely. You have sworn vengeance on the entire Central Military Commission. We are in no position to bring this about. So what is the best way to damage their power?”
It was a discussion they’d had so many times that she’d had dreams about it. Mei-Li dampened a finger with her tongue and dipped it into the small bowl of toasted sesame seeds. Licking them off, she crunched on them while fighting to convince herself that Mui’s plan was the right one. Worse, she knew it was, but her fourteen years embedded in China’s gymnastics training had taught her to drive for perfection at every moment. This slow slog grated against everything she was.
“Well?”
“By helping America advance until China becomes irrelevant. And we are best served by doing our part of keeping America in the lead until those bastards all wither under corruption, demographic collapse, climate change, and everything else that could possibly curse their shriveled souls.”
Mui poured the whisked eggs into the hot wok that responded with a sharp sizzle and snap. She ignored Mei-Li’s singsong delivery. “Precisely.”
Mei-Li crunched on another fingertip’s worth of sesame seeds. She did like the way that sounded. Besides… “We are young.”
“We are,” Mui slid the slab of scrambled egg onto the cutting board, tossed in the meat, then made quick work of slicing the eggs into long strips. “The old men of the CMC are all many decades older than us. Grandfather Liú Zuocheng by fifty years and he is not the eldest.”
“They will be dead for decades before we are their ages.” That cheered her up as well.
“And we’re beautiful. They aren’t.”
Despite her mood, Mei-Li couldn’t help herself and giggled. Mui was a great beauty, a generational one. Mei-Li knew her own best feature was an athlete’s body, something she’d maintained as well as possible since winning the silver medal that Mui had insisted on hanging as the sole ornament on their bedroom wall. “We are young and we are beautiful.”
Mui added the vegetables as she nodded.
Mei-Li hopped down from the counter to re-warm the Mandarin pancakes briefly in the bamboo steamer. As always, Mui had broken her dark mood. At first, there had been inescapable nightmares—every night. But over their four years in America, those had become rarer and easier to escape.
She opened her mouth to tell Mui how much she loved her, but Mui beat her to it by simply saying, “I know.”
Mei-Li laughed properly this time as she flipped the pancakes.
Her phone pinged, and Mui had a pained look. Dinner was ready.
