There were still two hours until dawn, and Qiu Shi now understood why Li Feng could never get a full night’s sleep. Ever since he locked himself inside the lab, Colonel Yu and the department heads had been losing sleep along with him.
It wasn’t just the effort required to get him out; there were also countless logistical matters to coordinate. Things that could usually be handled with a single call to Li Feng now all had to be managed manually.
For a normally low-profile Director of the Security Bureau, keeping the secret of his current absence was no easy task.
“You guys go find those two warehouse keepers later,” Minister Liu said after glancing at the time. “I have to head back to the company. Once it’s dawn, the entire city will be celebrating. Inner and outer city together—there’s way too much to do. Director Zhang is still in Donglin Town, and I also need to coordinate with the City Defense Bureau on security arrangements.”
“Got it,” Qiu Shi replied. “Colonel Yu, are you still heading to the command center?”
“The team heading to Zhuyuan already left tonight. The team for Shidi is departing before noon,” Colonel Yu said. “I should be free by the afternoon.”
“No problem,” said Qiu Shi. “I’ll be done with my questioning by then, too.”
Colonel Yu paused, then smiled and sighed.
They all split up, and Qiu Shi and Xing Bi went to the Exhibition Hall.
Lin Sheng and the others were already there. Though the lab couldn’t be opened, the technology inside—and the people—were now too important to Yun City’s fate. Nothing could be allowed to go wrong. It had to be guarded at all times.
Qu Shen was still inside the hall’s classified archive room, searching through documents. Many of the high-clearance files were still on film, and had to be read line by line. Only bioroids could manage such work, their minds able to compile and compare information as they read.
The inner city streets were unusually busy for this hour. Security Bureau vehicles were moving supplies—food and winter clothing—to be distributed to outer-city refugees during the celebrations.
“In the past,” Qiu Shi said as he walked into the hall, glancing back toward the street, “this was the perfect time for me to sneak into the inner city and beg Li Feng for food. If he was in a good mood—or just irritated—he’d wave me off and give me extra.”
“We’ll go rob the Security Bureau warehouse later,” Xing Bi said.
“Li Feng’s not there,” Qiu Shi replied. “No fun if we’re just grabbing leftovers.”
“Do you really…” Xing Bi looked at him.
Qiu Shi laughed. “Ah, partner, I like that reaction of yours. Keep it coming.”
“You actually like that?” Xing Bi said.
“Yeah,” Qiu Shi nodded.
“I’ve decided to give up on rescuing Li Feng,” Xing Bi said.
“What?” Lin Sheng’s voice came through the earpiece.
Qiu Shi jumped, realizing they had entered the team’s secure comms range inside the exhibition hall.
“No,” Xing Bi said calmly. “Just joking with Qiu Shi.”
“Director Li,” Curator Wu looked at Li Feng. “You think this is funny?”
“Yeah,” Li Feng nodded with a cigarette in his mouth, smiling. “With things like this, you still care whether I smoke or not? I’d die of starvation before I get lung cancer.”
“This is a high-level research zone! No smoking!” Curator Wu pointed past the glass wall. “Even when you smoked on the other side, I couldn’t be bothered to stop you.”
“I can’t get over there now anyway,” Li Feng said.
Curator Wu glared at him for a moment, then sat down heavily in a chair and sighed. “How long has it been? Why haven’t they made any progress?”
“Unless they blow up the entire exhibition hall, we won’t feel a thing from in here no matter what they do outside,” Li Feng replied.
“Thirty-six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-nine seconds,” Cheng Gu said.
“What? It’s only been less than two days?” Curator Wu looked stunned and disbelieving.
“Correct,” Cheng Gu replied.
“Not less than two days,” Li Feng corrected him, “Just past a day and a half.”
“Shut up!” Curator Wu said. “How come I never noticed you were such a chatterbox?”
“Nothing else to do,” Li Feng replied.
“Talk to them, then,” Curator Wu said, turning and heading into one of the experimental pods, where they were still conducting anti-fungal testing.
For Curator Wu, if he were to die in here, these experiments might be his greatest solace.
“Director Li,” Cheng Gu called out.
“Yeah?” Li Feng turned to look at him.
“The air inside the lab is decreasing,” Cheng Gu said.
Li Feng kept looking at him, then asked after a few seconds, “What did you say?”
“We’ll run out of air,” Cheng Gu said.
“How come I don’t feel anything?” Li Feng asked.
“Because you’re human. It’ll take a few more days before you start noticing,” Cheng Gu replied.
Hearing that, Li Feng actually looked relieved. He turned to look at Chen Dang beyond the glass wall. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes,” Chen Dang nodded.
“We’re breathing the same air, right?” Li Feng asked.
“Yes,” Chen Dang confirmed.
“Then good,” Li Feng said. “Makes me feel more balanced.”
“You’re actually worried about that?” Gao Shan looked pale. “Shouldn’t you be worried we’ll suffocate before we run out of food?”
“You could always kill yourself before suffocating,” Li Feng replied.
Chen Dang couldn’t help but laugh. “Director Li.”
“Yeah?” Li Feng looked at him.
“How do you keep your mindset like this under these conditions?” Chen Dang asked.
“At our current rate,” Li Feng turned to Cheng Gu, “how long do we have?”
“For humans, about ten days,” Cheng Gu answered.
“Then it’s fine,” Li Feng turned back to Chen Dang. “Because I know Qiu Shi and Xing Bi will open this door before I die.”
“Really?” Chen Dang folded his arms and looked at him. “Why are you so sure?”
“It’s a kind of blind trust that belongs to humans,” Li Feng said. “Maybe bioroids can’t understand that kind of joy—of course, not all humans can either.”
“Maybe…” Chen Dang smiled. “Xing Bi has experienced it.”
Qiu Shi sat in the warehouse control room, fingers tapping rhythmically on the console.
The tapping was starting to annoy even him, but he couldn’t stop.
Xing Bi grabbed his hand and placed it on his own leg, pressing it down.
“Why are we waiting for their shift to start?” Qiu Shi frowned and glanced toward the break room. “They’ve been here for decades; day and night don’t mean anything anymore. What’s the point of having shifts?”
“You stay in this kind of environment long enough, you pick up some quirks,” Xing Bi replied. “Be patient.”
“Those two? I could drag them out with one hand,” Qiu Shi said. “Screw sleeping. I’ve been up all night.”
“If we drag them out and they still won’t talk? Last time, even with a crowd, they were terrified,” Xing Bi said. “Calm down, human. Control your emotions.”
“What if we activate all the bioroids—can they break the lab open?” Qiu Shi looked at the monitors displaying the transparent cryo-pods.
“Calm down, human.” Xing Bi smiled and gently squeezed his fingertips.
It was oddly soothing—truly helped him relax a bit.
“Can they break it?” Qiu Shi still insisted.
“No,” Xing Bi said. “Human technology back then was far more advanced than it is now. The lab was made with materials that Curator Wu and his team could never replicate. Don’t waste time thinking you can brute-force something our ancestors left behind.”
“How long until their shift starts?” Qiu Shi asked.
“One hour and two minutes,” Xing Bi replied. “Want to take a nap?”
“How?” Qiu Shi glanced around. This crappy room had only two chairs. One for him, one for Xing Bi. No spare cushions, nothing.
Xing Bi patted his own thigh.
Qiu Shi hesitated for a moment, dragged the chair slightly, then lay down and rested his head on Xing Bi’s leg.
Even though there was only one chair and one leg, being able to stretch out his body was still a relief for someone who had just been kicked so hard he vomited blood the day before. The doctor had told him to stay in bed for two days, and he’d only managed two or three hours.
“Sleep,” Xing Bi said, covering his eyes with his hand.
The bright white light in the control room was blocked out, and the warmth in Xing Bi’s palm seeped through his eyelids into his eyeballs, and then seemed to sink straight into his brain. He quickly began to feel drowsy.
The nap didn’t last long, but the quality was clearly better than the one he’d had in the hospital. When he was shaken awake, he felt much lighter.
“Is it time for work?” he asked, reaching up to touch Xing Bi’s face, which was leaning over him.
“Yeah,” Xing Bi glanced to the side, “You can ask now.”
“Shit.” Qiu Shi followed his gaze and quickly withdrew his hand. Two monitoring staff, one tall and one short, were standing in front of the screen, watching the data.
Xing Bi supported his back and helped him sit up.
“Good morning, gentlemen… monitors,” Qiu Shi rubbed his eyes as he sat in the chair.
The two monitors didn’t respond. The tall one glanced back once, then quickly turned back to the screen.
“You…” Qiu Shi was a little confused and turned to look at Xing Bi.
“Just ask,” Xing Bi said. “We represent Yun City Mining Company, which owns this lab. We’re here to understand some things about the lab.”
The two monitors remained silent but tilted their heads slightly.
“How long have you been working here?” Xing Bi asked.
The two looked at each other, seemingly exchanging thoughts telepathically, but clearly failing. The short one muttered, “You answer.”
“Th-thirty-seven years,” the tall one said.
“Thirty-seven years?” Qiu Shi was skeptical. They looked only in their early forties. “Curator Wu said you’ve been here for twenty years.”
“Thirty-seven years, ten months, and th-three days,” the tall one replied, a bit defiantly, giving a very precise number.
“You haven’t left this place for twenty years, right?” Xing Bi clarified.
“Yes,” the short one said. “He’s been director for twenty years, three months, and twenty-two days.”
Qiu Shi understood now. Once Wu became director, these two weren’t allowed to leave.
“Then no one knows this place better than you,” he said. “Besides the warehouse, do you know the rest of the lab?”
The tall one quickly turned his head, “Yes.”
“Besides the two usual paths into the main part of the lab,” Xing Bi asked, “are there any other ways in?”
“No,” the short one replied quickly.
“Is there any way to contact the people inside the lab?” Qiu Shi asked.
“The lab, it’s, it’s…” The tall one hung his head, “locked?”
Qiu Shi raised his eyebrows, surprised.
Surprised that no one told these two the lab had been locked, and surprised they could immediately guess it was locked without being told.
“Yes,” Xing Bi answered. “It’s still classified. Looks like you two really are the ones who know the lab best.”
Qiu Shi glanced at him. That was some well-timed flattery.
But it worked. The short one turned slightly, “The lab has an auto-lock mechanism. It’s on the diagram.”
“Can we see it?” Xing Bi asked.
Even Curator Wu hadn’t seen this diagram. When the two monitors pulled up the 3D model of the lab from the system, their hands trembled with excitement.
It was unclear why Curator Wu didn’t allow these two to leave the warehouse, or what their past identities were, but there was no doubt—after spending over thirty years in the underground world, forgotten by everyone, they truly understood the lab.
Qiu Shi couldn’t understand the diagram. Xing Bi didn’t get much of it either—only that the lab was a complete structure embedded into the mountain that now housed the museum. The upper and lower parts were different floors of the lab, but they weren’t connected to each other.
“What are these?” Qiu Shi pointed at some pipes. “Can you go through them?”
“Oxygen pipes,” the tall one replied, still trembling and rubbing his hands. “S-shut off. All shut off.”
“What?” Qiu Shi turned to Xing Bi in shock.
“How long will the oxygen last inside?” Xing Bi asked.
“Fifteen days under normal conditions,” the short one responded rapidly, shivering even more.
“Shit,” Qiu Shi bit his lip. The lab usually had two or three people; now it had at least twice that. “Li Feng might really die in there.”
“Don’t panic,” Xing Bi gripped his hand and continued studying the diagram. “Is the power system independent? Can it be controlled from outside?”
“No,” the short one said.
“What’s this?” Xing Bi pointed to a blank area on the diagram.
“C-can, can, can, can…” the tall one trembled violently, pointing.
“The General’s place,” the short one finished quickly.
“Can we get in?” Qiu Shi’s voice wavered—he wasn’t sure if it was from urgency or being affected by their constant trembling.
The two didn’t answer but exchanged a glance.
“Curator Wu is inside the lab,” Qiu Shi said. “He’s locked in.”
The short one couldn’t help but laugh.
The laugh was unpleasant—strange, even.
“If we can get the people inside out, or at least contact them,” Qiu Shi said, “you’ll be heroes. I guarantee in Mr. Long’s name that nothing will happen to you, and you can make requests.”
“Down,” the tall one said, “three levels.”
“Lin Sheng, Xu Jie,” Xing Bi activated the team comms, “wait for us outside the transport bay.”
“Copy that,” Lin Sheng replied.
“Copy,” Xu Jie added.
As the two monitors walked out of the biolab warehouse, they looked like they were having seizures—barely able to stand.
Qiu Shi wanted to just pick them up and carry them, but they were so easily frightened he had to settle for gently supporting them with each hand.
“Have you seen the General?” Qiu Shi asked.
“No,” said the tall one. “Mr. Long came, came to see.”
“Frequently?” Qiu Shi asked again.
“Not frequently,” the short one said. “Twice. Twenty-seven years ago.”
Qiu Shi looked at Xing Bi.
“How did he see him?” Xing Bi asked.
The two didn’t reply, just walked on excitedly.
Qiu Shi had the feeling this so-called meeting with the General wasn’t a face-to-face one in the usual sense. It was something more dangerous—or at least hard to accept. Otherwise, Mr. Long wouldn’t have gone only twice and then never returned for over twenty years.
Even though Qiu Shi didn’t know if the General had anything to do with the lab’s lockdown, he was just as mysterious. They had to try this lead.
Lin Sheng and Xu Jie were already standing at the transport bay door. The moment the two monitors saw them, they got so spooked they couldn’t take another step and turned to flee.
“They’re second-level bioroids.” Xing Bi gently turned the two men back around. “Security detail. No consciousness…”
Lin Sheng and Xu Jie cooperatively froze in place, dropping all expressions and movements.
They entered the bay. The short one reached out and felt around on the wall, triggering a hidden panel like a password box. He inserted his finger, and with a beep, the panel withdrew and the bay began to descend.
When the door opened again, a corridor stretched out before them, ending in a heavy metal door.
At this point, the two monitors seemed to regain their spirit and walked steadily.
“This was also part of your old work area?” Xing Bi asked.
“Yes,” the short one nodded.
The metal door opened with the same type of code box. As it opened, a blast of cold white mist poured out, making Qiu Shi shiver.
“Safe,” Xing Bi whispered in his ear.
They followed the two monitors inside.
It was an empty hall, except for a central pillar lit by a beam of light.
The two monitors approached and placed their palms on the pillar. White light glowed where their hands met the surface, and the pillar began to sink.
A metal frame rose before them. It looked like a chair with a roof, covered in wires that led to who-knows-where.
“What the hell… is that?” Qiu Shi stared at it. “An electric chair?”
The tall one picked up a few wires, each tipped with fine needle-like ends. He smiled. “Y-you do it.”
“Wait,” Qiu Shi raised a hand. “What is this? Does it let us contact the people inside the lab?”
“Yes,” the short one nodded.
“How do you make contact? What’s the principle behind it?” Qiu Shi pressed further.
“The communication signal is blocked, but there are gaps. Non-communication signals can get through,” the tall man suddenly stopped stammering and shaking. Although what he said was still incomprehensible, “We’re using the most primitive method…”
Qiu Shi didn’t listen closely—he wouldn’t have understood it anyway—but he caught two key words from the general’s conversation: something about gaps, something about primitive.
“What did you do in the lab,” Xing Bi asked, “before you became monitors?”
“Chief technician,” the tall man answered.
“…Shit,” Qiu Shi froze.
Curator Wu had locked two chief technicians in the windowless biochemical body storage room for twenty years.
“Come.” The short man waved, looking a bit excited.
“I’ll go,” Xing Bi said.
“Bioroids—no, no good,” the tall man slipped back into his previous state, “Need a human, a human.”
“Then I’ll go,” Qiu Shi said and walked over.
Xing Bi immediately stepped in front of him and grabbed the wires from the tall man first. He looked at them: “How do we use these?”
“Neural access at the back of the neck.” The tall man returned to his “chief technician” mode as soon as it involved a technical problem—he stopped shaking, and his speech became clear. “A human’s.”
“Can I do it?” Qiu Shi paused and touched the back of his neck. Strictly speaking, that little square block meant he didn’t quite count as human anymore.
“Enhanced?” The short man caught on immediately.
“Yeah.” Qiu Shi replied.
“Better. More accurate,” the tall man said. “As long as it’s not a full replacement, it’s fine.”
Xing Bi looked at Qiu Shi.
Qiu Shi looked back at him. “What? It’s not like we’ve got any other choice.”
Xing Bi didn’t say anything.
“We’re running out of oxygen,” Qiu Shi said.
“At least ten days,” Xing Bi replied.
Qiu Shi chuckled, then lowered his voice: “You don’t want to see the general? Who is he? What kind of existence has he been all these years? What does he know? Why has he always been there?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Xing Bi said.
“Then what else do you want to say?” Qiu Shi asked.
“I just don’t want you to take the risk,” Xing Bi said.
“But you’re here,” Qiu Shi replied.
“It’s safe,” the short man said quickly. “Your boyfriend will be safer than an ordinary human.”
“I…” Qiu Shi opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.
That line from the short man left him momentarily speechless.
“I’ll handle the connection,” Xing Bi said. “Do the colors need to match?”
“Yes,” the tall man nodded. “It’s even easier than with a normal human. Just match the colors and plug them in. Since you’re a biochemical body, it’ll be more precise.”
“What colors?” Qiu Shi sat down in the chair.
“That little square of yours—your brain—has neural connection ports in different colors,” Xing Bi stood behind him, gently feeling the back of his neck with his fingers. “These wires need to match those ports.”
“Just plug them in, right?” Qiu Shi asked. He had never really looked closely at what those little squares on the back of Bioroids looked like.
“Yeah,” Xing Bi replied.
“Let’s begin,” Qiu Shi said.
Xing Bi squeezed his shoulder, and then Qiu Shi felt a slight prickling pain at the back of his neck. Xing Bi’s action was so quick and smooth that Qiu Shi almost didn’t notice it.
“How does it feel?” Xing Bi asked.
“Nothing,” Qiu Shi said.
“You won’t feel anything until all the wires are connected,” the tall man explained. “Then you’ll start seeing and hearing things. You’ll be in the general’s office.”
“Will he still be able to hear us from this side?” Xing Bi asked.
“Yes,” the short man answered.
“Qiu Shi,” Xing Bi said as he inserted the second wire, “I’ll keep talking to you the whole time.”
“Mm,” Qiu Shi responded.
Soft sounds began to echo in the room.
Li Feng, who had been resting with his eyes closed, opened them and looked at Cheng Gu, who was sitting beside him. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah.” Cheng Gu turned his head and looked toward the lab instruments.
There were quite a few monitors over there. Because of the glass wall, they were visible from the other side. To avoid information leaks, Curator Wu had turned them all off.
Now, one of the monitors suddenly lit up—but it didn’t show any surveillance footage. Instead, it flickered with random white static lines.
“What’s that?” Gao Shan stood up and walked to the glass wall.
“That,” Li Feng said, “is your hope of not suffocating to death in here.”
–
Author’s Note:
This device is in the lab. The general’s brain is in the military base. They’re not in the same place. —— Just a clarification for any confused readers.
