The First Love Of Alipang Havens

When they had finished their tea, they started back outside, Yang first. Kim whispered to her husband, "Remember 'The Game of Death.' "

"Dan Inosanto, right. I'll remember." Alipang knew that Kim was referring to Bruce Lee's last movie, in which Lee had filmed a spectactular fight scene with his real-life friend Dan Inosanto, one of the greatest Escrima masters of the twentieth century. The point of that scene had been that excessive adherence to a rehearsed form was a fatal weakness when facing a fighter with flexible techniques. Fortunately, dear old Pitik Imada back in Smoky Lake had seen that movie too, and had always shown his Escrima students ways to grow beyond step-by-step forms and to be ready for diverse combat situations. That was why Master Pitik had called his style "Practical Escrima."

Glancing up toward Heaven, Alipang murmured, "I'll show them how well you taught me, Master."

Bert Randall handed each man two sticks, and told the spectators, "This will be purely a bout of weapon skill: no punching, kicking or grappling allowed. If either man loses hold of a baton while time remains in the bout, he will be allowed to pick it up again and continue." He began backing away. "Are you both ready?--Timekeeper, call the start." Alipang stood in a traditional Escrima starting stance: his right hand high, with its weapon reaching back over his right shoulder, the left arm crossed over his belly, so that the left-hand stick was near his ribs on the right side. Yang stood holding both sticks out in front of him, right hand leading, causing Alipang to guess that Yang had training with the straight sword which was the Chinese counterpart of a rapier.

"Fight!" shouted Phosphorus Andrews.

This time, Alipang let Yang make the first move. The Chinese came in thrusting rather than swinging, tending to support Alipang's guess. Alipang fended off these thrusts with stick movements which followed the traditional pattern, his speed compensating for the predictability. But he didn't stay traditional for long; he had no intention of playing Dan Inosanto to his opponent's Bruce Lee. At a chosen instant, he did the swiftest dive-and-roll he could manage, coming down close to Yang's left leg. Swinging both sticks at ankle height, he took Yang's feet right out from under him.

Even surprised, Yang was able to control his fall enough to avoid having his wind smashed out of him by the impact; but this time it was Alipang who was quicker to regain his feet. Like wooden cobras, his batons both peppered Yang's head and arms with blows at about one-quarter strength; not until five blows had landed was Yang able to parry the next few. "My turn to say, that would have put me out of action!" Yang declared with a tigerish smile. "But as it is--!" Now he drove in with a fresh attack.

For the rest of the two minutes, except for a few very brief drops to a kneeling posture to strike low, both men remained upright; and there was hardly any pause in their furious exchange. The clacking collisions of their sticks came so fast that, by the sound, one could almost have imagined a giant woodpecker was at work. With sight as well as noise to go by, the onlookers stood mesmerized at the unrelenting speed of the duel. Besides the early scores, Alipang made five more hits on Yang: two to the ribs, one at the side of a knee, one didn't-touch-but-would-have-landed at the crotch, and one on the knuckles of Yang's right hand, making him drop that stick, which Alipang allowed him to retrieve. Yang only scored on Alipang three times--two light blows to the head, logically enough since Yang was a little taller, and a thrust to the chest. But as Alipang had done in the unarmed bout, Yang kept up his maximum effort to the very end, forcing his adversary really to earn the victory.

"Stop!" cried Overseer Andrews; and Captain Butello shouted, "A great fight by both men, but Dr. Havens clearly wins this one!" The applause had been terrific enough after the first bout; now it became even louder, because the several Overseers present joined in cheering for Alipang--all except Vargas and Huddleston, though they had watched the match very closely.

"That was epic! That was radical! It was worth all the aches I'm going to have these next few days!" whooped Alipang. "Mr. Yang, you're my favorite enemy!"--and he threw his arms around the Chinese, who still was not accustomed to being hugged, but who at least understood the gesture of good sportsmanship.

Bert Randall closed in to clap them both on the shoulders, then said to Alipang, "It was wonderful--never saw anything better! Please, Dr. Havens, could I be your second favorite enemy? I mean, could I try a little go with you, light contact or none, just to get the feel of what you two did? I can tell you're not all worn out. Please?"

"Give me a minute, and I'll oblige you," Alipang told him; "non-contact." Kim ran up to object to her husband exerting himself longer, but as they embraced he whispered to her, "This might get him to add his voice for you-know-what."

So there was a bonus Escrima bout for the crowd to see, albeit somewhat anticlimactic. Yet still worth seeing. At Bert's request, they used only one baton each; "We've got Filipinos in Australia, y'know, but they've only taught me singlestick so far." Bert's technique was visibly limited in scope, but he had speed, strength, and accuracy; though Alipang dominated the non-contact match, the Australian did score two simulated hits (to Alipang's thirteen) before they halted.

Now it was Bert who hugged Alipang. "Thank you, Master, for that's what you are. I genuinely learned a move or two from that. You let me know if there's anything in my power that I can do for you." His tone seemed to suggest that he expected Alipang to have a request.
 
"Yes, there is something," Alipang told Bert without hesitation. "I believe you've heard by now about the founder of our exile newspaper suffering Adenoid-Cystic Carcinoma...?"

Before long, Bert was joining Yang in making the pitch to Maria Butello for Mr. De Soto to be allowed the gill implants. Yang did very well at repeating Harmony Havens' arguments for the procedure; but Bert had a card to play here that Yang didn't have. "Captain Butello, if cost is any factor in deciding this matter, you can tell your triumvirate that I myself have the money to spare to be able to pay for the whole thing, and I _will_ pay." When Yang turned a startled glance upon him, Bert explained to both law-enforcement officers at once: "I'm single, and I live in a country where I get to keep my own earnings and invest them as I see fit. I pursue my career because I want to, not because I need more money."

Sylvia Lathrop had not cared to watch the martial-arts contest; when a local boy had run to her house to tell her it was over, she mounted her senior-citizen tricycle and came to Alipang's house. Inspecting Alipang's face, she chided him: "And if you had lost one of _your_ teeth, who would have seen to fixing the damage?"

"Why, my Dad, of course," Alipang was quick to reply. Then he found himself being urgently hugged by his children.

Sylvia made small talk with various others present, chiefly Kim and Mr. Tomisaburo, then turned her attentions to her two lodgers as soon as they seemed to be done talking to Captain Butello. But only after all of the Overseers had taken their leave did she ask Yang, "Did she say they would help Mr. De Soto?"

"The Captain promised to raise the proposal to the triumvirate, anyway," replied Yang. "And she seemed sincere when she said she expected them to approve."

"I can't imagine them refusing," said Bert, "since they won't suffer any harm by allowing the procedure, and it will score goodwill points with both China and Australia."

Yang spread his hands. "Of course, they might say that if they let him have this operation, they'll be forced to let _everyone_ have gills. But I'll follow up on this before I leave the Enclave, and Mr. Randall can nag them again after that."

Looking at Yang, Sylvia's face had a lightbulb-goes-on look. "Oh, that's right, you wanted to get back to Beijing in time to see your daughters dance with streamers on your Chinese holiday. I'm going to miss you, Mr. Yang; you've both been most courteous guests."

Eventually, Sylvia and the two foreigners returned to her house. Before supper, she contrived to talk a bit more to them about Christ. Having obtained some rice, she cooked something like chow mein for her guests, and surprised Yang by providing him with a pair of chopsticks to use. "I hope you don't mind that they're _Japanese_ chopsticks; my Harold and I brought several sets back from a trip to Japan, a long time ago."

Yang gave his hostess the largest smile she had yet seen on his face. "I don't mind at all, and thank you. After all, there have been Japanese Maoists for several generations." He didn't mention that a son of Japanese Maoists was waiting to pass data to him.

After digesting supper and playing a card game with Bert and Sylvia, Yang went out for a jog, "to keep my muscles from stiffening after that bit of sport this afternoon." Bert was content to stay in the living room, asking the widow to explain what the expression "the Roman road to salvation" meant.

Out on the streets, Yang put his technologically-enhanced night vision to work, looking for any sign of Mr. Tomisaburo. What he found was a piece of paper folded into a Japanese origami bird. Where it rested on the pavement, its head was pointing in a certain direction. Yang noted the direction before picking up the paper bird. Unfolding the paper yielded no writing--except the number 2332. A series of such birds was to lead him to a place of concealment among some bushes that flanked a tree.

Mr. Tomisaburo wasn't there, but the sheets of paper on which he had written his report in pencil were stuck into a crack in the treetrunk.

Yang was taken aback at the information being written plainly, with no attempt at cryptography. But he quickly realized two things: that it must have been virtually impossible for Tomisaburo to have been kept current on what ciphers the Chinese government prescribed for written messages--and that the Diversity States regime had made very little use of hard copy for _anything_ in all of its brief existence, which meant that its enforcers would not consider documents on paper to be of any importance.

But _Yang_ saw plenty of importance in what Tomisaburo had written. He was glad he had already made it known that he meant to leave soon, because what he was now reading would by itself be cause for him to hurry out of the Enclave at once.
 
Chapter 36: Much Ado About Notepaper


Sunday night, then, was Major Yang's last chance to converse in depth with Mrs. Lathrop. In the background, at low volume, her vintage audiotape player was playing music from "Chariots of Fire": the widow's private joke with herself, since that movie had honored a Christian man who served as a missionary--to China. Bert was present, but for once not saying much; he was staying longer, and would have other chances to talk with their hostess.

Yang let her speak as she would about the adventures she and the late Harry Lathrop had enjoyed in Japan long ago, and she included accounts of Japanese churches, where there were twenty female Christians for every one male Christian; "--but the Christian men they did have, all seemed to have the fire of the Apostles."

At last, Yang posed a serious question: "Mrs. Lathrop, if you tell me only one more thing, please tell me this. Why, on your view, does a spiritual person have to be confined to _your_ path? How do you know that all roads don't lead to the same destination?"

"Young man, it's because the very idea of roads or paths, in this connection, is only a metaphor. We don't exist on a highway map, where there may be forty or fifty roads which never touch each other and yet all go east. We exist in, well, a school or a factory--someplace where we are _becoming_ something, being made _into_ something. 'Spiritual' doesn't mean 'vague and featureless.' There are particular qualities which have to be built into us--"

Not with intentional rudeness, but in genuine concern for the issue, Yang interrupted: "I know, compassion, justice and so on. But doesn't _every_ religion teach those things?"

"Begging pardon," Bert now said to Yang, "but Mrs. Lathrop answered that same point for me in one of my own talks with her. I had said what you just now said, and she told me that there's more at stake than only _teaching_ goodness; she said that unlike plain teachers, Jesus provided a remedy for the damage done by our _failures_ to practice goodness."

"Thank you, Mr. Randall;" and Sylvia turned to Yang again. "Yes, there is a _gigantic_ difference between mere teaching and radical _transformation_ of the spirit. And regardless of people's impression that 'all religions are the same,' it is exactly the _differences_ which are crucial. Any zoologist will distinguish animal species by their differences from each other; any pharmacist has a life-and-death responsibility to know the differences between one medication and another. And the Christian faith is different from other belief systems, above all, because the _person_ Jesus Christ is distinct and unique, never to be excelled, replaced, matched or duplicated, not ever."

Yang's face took on a sort of scowl, but one of concentration rather than annoyance. "Then why does this faith happen only to have been popular in Europe for a long time? And why, then, should I not identify these exclusive claims with the old imperial and racist attitudes of European powers?"

Sylvia surprisingly smiled. "Mr. Yang, you're a master at boxing, but you don't have the gift for authentic dirty fighting in debate. You've been so honest in some of your past remarks about what your own people have done to groups like the Tibetans, that you can't convince me that you're playing the race card now. So this white woman can just answer your question at face value. Early Christianity spread much more widely than only in Europe; when Marco Polo came to your country, he found that the Chinese already knew of the faith. But places like China already had strongly-established belief systems, with enough inertia that they would not easily be displaced, even if something came which _was_ more true. Pre-Christian Europe, on the other hand, had overall a less organized religious establishment, so there wasn't as much resistance to the gospel in the arena of ideas. You can choose to believe that this was Europe's bad luck, but of course I regard it as Europe's _good_ luck.

"None of this, however, constitutes my evidence for the gospel of Jesus being _true_ in literal fact. People can have many reasons for accepting OR rejecting ideas which are true OR false. But there is an assortment of historical testimony, even archaeological findings, in our favor. I'm going to give you three or four books to take away with you, scholarly books which lay out the chief reasons why we Christians believe what we believe. And into one of those books, I'm going to insert this." She held up a sheet of stationery, on which it could be seen that she had written something by hand. "This is a list I've made for you, of Bible verses which have direct bearing on questions you've raised with me during our time together. I know that no one back in Beijing will prevent you from reading a Bible in your own language; and I ask you, after you've seen your daughters dance in the celebration, to read all these verses in Chinese. They may speak to your heart more clearly that way."

"Thank you," said Yang with real warmth. "I promise you, I'll do what you ask. That includes reading those gift books, as soon as my duties allow." He truly intended to do so; but he did not mention to Sylvia that, in the short run, that piece of paper with Bible verses was going to be wrapped around the sheets of paper Mr. Tomisaburo had smuggled to him--a bit of extra concealment, for the short time that would pass between his leaving the Enclave, and his entering the nearest Chinese consulate to hand over the agent's information to the military-intelligence attache there.

 
Before full dawn Monday morning, Alipang, Kim, Lorraine, Ransom, Wilson, Esperanza, Brendan and Harmony were all seated for breakfast, when there was a lively knock at the door. Wilson rose to answer, and thus was the first to behold Yang Sung-Kuo radiating a bigger smile than anyone here had ever seen on his face.

"Young man, forgive the early visit, but you know I'm being picked up very soon; and I _must_ tell all of you my news before I go." He followed Wilson to the kitchen, even as Alipang stepped up to greet him.

"It would be worth a small disturbance just to have the chance to say goodbye to you, Mr. Yang. We have so little contact with the rest of the world here, but your visit brought us a very stimulating part of that world." Alipang shook Yang's hand. "So, what is the news? Do I dare to hope...?"

"Yes, dare!" the beaming Chinese replied. "I received a text message overnight from the office of the Enclave Undersecretary of Sustainable Energy, informing me that your friend Mr. De Soto _will_ be allowed to undergo that life-prolonging operation!" The whole household burst into cheering at this announcement, and Harmony embarrassed Yang no end by rushing up to him and kissing his cheek.

In Mandarin Chinese she said to her fellow Chinese: "Thank you, good man. May Heaven pursue you with overflowing rewards for your kindness."

Yang responded in the same language: "Heaven has already given me one reward, in my earning the good opinion of such a fine and pure-hearted young woman as you, and of such a noble warrior as your brother." Then he turned his attention back to Alipang, speaking in English once more.

"Mr. Randall deserves your thanks also; they're taking him up on his offer to pay the costs of the implantation himself. I'm glad to have met Mr. Randall; and since he's not confined here, I hope to meet him again. But I'm going to miss you, Dr. Havens. I'm sorry that you and I won't have the chance to refine each other's skills any further; I've met very few such good opponents on any continent. But at least I can leave you a little token of my respect."

From a pocket, Yang drew forth several sheets of Mrs. Lathrop's writing paper (not including her list for him); on the outermost of these was not only writing, but something like an anatomy drawing. "Here I have written down some tips on hand-to-hand moves which I believe will help make your superb unarmed fighting even better."

"God bless you," Alipang told him, accepting the still-folded papers. "That's a solemn gift to give, and an honor for me to receive it."

"I'm glad you have such a proper attitude. Sharing of unusual techniques is indeed solemn. For the honor of kung-fu, and I consider your Escrima as sharing such honor, I strongly urge you to keep to yourself what I am giving you; do not be quick to show it to others, _even_ in your own family. When you read through these instructions, you will understand the seriousness of my advice."

Farewells after this point had to proceed fairly fast, though Yang spared the time to drink a cup of apple cider offered him by Kim. The kung-fu man said an individual goodbye to everyone in the household, ending with a repeat handshake for Alipang. His last words to them, on his way out the door, were, "I hope someday a copy of the Wyoming Observer will find its way to me in Beijing, preferably with an article about your family in it."

Alipang finished breakfast with the rest before he unfolded Yang's papers. Not letting anyone else look, he skimmed through everything there was. He found step-by-step descriptions of seven different fighting maneuvers, four of them involving some form of catching and grappling. And on the last sheet, he also found.....

...the _real_ reason why Mr. Yang wanted him to be secretive with these papers. He instantly resolved that his family must not even know that the last sheet existed. He would hide it separately from the others, and for the time being NO ONE else would know that Yang had given him anything _other_ than kung-fu instructions.
 
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Dental business resumed for Alipang not long after Yang's leavetaking, and several patients today needed Kim's pain-killing acupunctural ministrations besides. As if in a reminder of the fleeting nature of earthly fame, it happened that not one of today's customers had seen Alipang's friendly fight with the Chinese researcher. To the particular satisfaction of Alipang and Kim, one farmer patient paid them with a quantity of oats for the horses. But before the daylight was gone, Alipang found his chance to read Yang's last sheet of paper more thoroughly, without revealing its distinct existence to anyone.

He had a double pretext for getting away from the house: to exercise the Palomino, and to go to a piece of unused land outside of town and glean deadwood from it for fireplace fuel. He had a duffel bag in which he would bring back the sticks. The land having trees meant, of course, that the ubiquitous spy satellites would not get a clear view of exactly what he was doing; and since he _would_ emerge with firewood, the monitoring personnel would not have any cause to suspect anything.

So it was that, while the stallion Sammy grazed, he got away with reading the following at a studious pace. It was written small, on both sides of the paper; Yang had had plenty to say....

Some American or other said in the previous century, "All politics is local." Your karma compels you to lead a life which is unnaturally local, relative to the technological age we live in; but you already know that the industrial assets of your Enclave have a strong effect on the life of your country as a whole. Yet you still do not realize HOW much events--and persons--inside the reservation may affect events outside.

As a lover of history, I imagine you have heard of the "Gang of Four" incident in my country's history. The fact that a nation wields hard, authoritarian power over its common citizens does not mean that the rulers are immune to danger--not as long as there is rivalry for the highest positions. The same is true of the Diversity States.

One thing you do know is that the original founding of your Enclave was an occasion for competition between federal departments which had only just barely settled into their current forms. Your Department of Distribution, whose leaders were important members of the Fairness Party from the start, wanted very much to have authority in the Enclave, but you know that it failed. The Department of Indoctrination, though it would have liked to enjoy sole jurisdiction, resorted to an alliance with Energy and Agriculture, which managed in the Party Presidium to outvote the alliance of Distribution and Transportation. An appeal by Distribution to the Supreme Court failed. So it is that only a very few personnel from Distribution and Transportation work inside the Enclave, and they have to take orders from the triumvirate.

But while there can be good sportsmanship in martial arts, there seldom is any in politics. No one likes to miss out on power and privilege; and those who gain power and privilege, may not be doing it for the motives you think. All the talk of "oneness" in Diversity States media means nothing. America may no longer have the ability to wage global wars, but GANG wars could still occur on your own soil.

It is an unavoidable reality that, even if every exile in the Enclave possessed all of the warrior virtues you possess, and all acted with one mind, your lack of resources would still render utterly hopeless any attempt to rise up in revolt against your masters. But just as one person may sway a vote in a parliamentary situation, so your people could possibly tip the balance if your own territory became the scene of struggle between factions. If two factions of nearly equal power were fighting for control of the Enclave, even a handful of exiles in the right positions could make a crucial difference in who won. It would not be in your power to rid yourselves of BOTH factions; but you could put ONE faction in your debt, and so possibly gain improvements in your conditions.

I cannot predict for you what factions there might be, nor how soon a crisis might break out between them, nor which would be more likely to reward your siding with them. But if you are as clever as I believe you are, you may be able to find your own clues. I urge you to select two or more of your most trustworthy friends to whom you can confide what I have told you; but for both your own safety and mine, do not choose persons who are likely to come under brainwave scans by your authorities. Remember that you will be choosing your allies for an ability to pick up information, rather than for an ability to fight battles. I should say, to pick up information without being conspicuous about it--which rules out your Mr. De Soto, even if he lives as long as I hope he will.

You deserve a better country than the one you live in; but if your God is real, perhaps it will fall to you to MAKE it better, even now. Be alert, and be imaginative. There is no foreseeing what opportunities will appear; try to expect everything, to be surprised by nothing.

That was it. No signature.

Alipang's first thought, when he had finished, was of the fact that Yang had made no mention of the fact that exiles could potentially strike a blow by taking over the power plants. Yang was smart enough to figure this out, but he probably didn't want to be responsible for positively _suggesting_ so rebellious an action. Alipang's second thought was of regret that John Wisebadger was now the Agriculture Ombudsman for the Wyoming Sector; John would normally have been the first man Alipang would recruit for a conspiracy, but now the Arapahoe gentleman was too much in the eye of the authorities.

There was Henry Spafford, of course. Henry, like Alipang, was in good standing with the Overseers ever since the July plane crash, yet not in a position to be constantly watched by them. Except that....Alipang could not be certain that Henry, and for that matter he himself, had not been implanted with tracking chips when they had been in that Overseer infirmary.

So there would have to be other "agents": persons who did not come too much to the notice of the bosses. Like Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings, effective precisely because underestimated. Finding out more facts was the great thing for now; God willing, persons like Henry and John could still be called into action at a later time, if more open action became the order of the day.

Bringing to bear the mental discipline he had learned as a homeschooler in Virginia, Alipang completely memorized Yang's letter. The physical piece of paper would burn in the fireplace tonight.
 
Major Yang Sung-Kuo had been flown from Sussex to Rapid City by a fixed-wing airplane that used an old road as its runway at the Sussex end. It was known that he wanted to make it home to Beijing in time for China's "National Day," and that was enough to induce the Deputy Commander of Overseers to expedite his travel. From Rapid City, he had been flown to Butte, Montana (now part of the Mountain Federal District, with Idaho and the northern fringe of Wyoming), where he could catch a plane for Winnipeg, Canada.

From Winnipeg, Yang could take a hypersonic liner the rest of the way home, Canada not being barred from having jets. But his first errand in the Canadian city was to go to the Chinese consulate. Once there, he identified himself and asked to meet alone with the military attache, who in this case was a middle-aged woman; though not part of China's foreign-intelligence apparatus, Yang knew that every military attache in Chinese embassies and consulates enjoyed a very high security clearance.

Once admitted to the attache's office, Yang handed over the handwritten message he had carried in his pocket from Wyoming to here. "Colonel, this was entrusted to me by a deep-cover operative, recognition two three three two, white, yellow, black. It has not been seen by, or mentioned to, anyone else, from the time I received it until now."

Nodding, the uniformed woman gestured for the Major to have a seat, while she commenced reading what Yang had read previously:

"Nash Dockerty, Deputy Commander of Overseers and member of the Western Enclave's administrative triumvirate, appears to have patterns of behavior inconsistent with his normal duties. The following is mostly hearsay; I cannot move around as much as I would like for direct reconnaissance without exciting suspicion; but there are enough anomalies to give possible new meaning to whatever is learned about this man by technological means. In this context I recommend that analysts review satellite-imagery and communications-intercept files on the Enclave, starting from February of last year, which is the earliest time for which I have any information of significance.

"Although it could be argued that the perimeter defenses which prevent escapes are a law-enforcement asset, their maintenance and repair are well established as being the responsibility of their Energy Department. Yet there seem to have been multiple instances of repair jobs being done on them by Overseers, with no Energy personnel present. According to what I have picked up, two Overseers named Vargas and Huddleston have always participated in these repair jobs, despite those men having a very different primary duty, a duty of intimidation and termination. Vargas and Huddleston have been independent officers, answering only to Dockerty, for as long as they have been on duty in the Enclave. On at least two occasions, the repair jobs have been close, in both place and time, to instances in which exiles were killed in alleged escape attempts.

"Less conspicuously strange, but still possibly relevant, is the allegation that Dockerty micromanages many aspects of the periodic overflights which dispense pacifying chemicals into the air over the Enclave. It is no violation of Indoctrination Department rules for him to do so, but I would expect this to be handled by much lower-ranking persons, since it is not a complicated procedure. Dockerty is said to have had numerous private conversations with union mechanics who come into Rapid City at intervals to service Overseer aircraft.

"I speculate that the slain exiles mentioned above may have seen the Overseers at work on the perimeter defenses, and been killed to silence them. Dockerty has little to fear from other exiles knowing what his people do; therefore, if he is hiding something, he must be hiding it from other authority figures of his own government. It is conceivable that his private meetings with the aircraft-maintenance personnel from outside have some relationship to whatever he is hiding.

"The Deputy Commander is also reputed to have paid several unexplained visits to parts of the Wyoming and Nebraska Sectors which face toward Aztlano territory. My one personal observation of strange behavior by him falls under this topic. On May twelfth of this year, I was in the vicinity of Enclave Power Station 30, having contrived an errand thereabouts in order to pick up anything I could from the workers. A shift foreman who had seen the Deputy Commander before pointed him out to me. Dockerty was carrying what might have been a case for electronic equipment; we saw him just as he was putting this object into an all-terrain vehicle. He then drove off alone, in a southerly direction, which would be toward the perimeter on that side.

"I do not know when I will be able to pass another message out; but until further orders, I will continue listening for hints of irregular activity by the Overseers. I cannot prove it, but I have a feeling that whatever is going on, has something to do with Aztlan and its dependence on electric power produced in the Diversity States."

The attache looked up. "Thank you for bringing this, Major. I wish you had the right need-to-know so I could tell you what things we later discover based on that agent's report; but we each have our own rice-field to plant. Have a good flight home."

"Thank you, Colonel. And if you ever have contact with Tomisaburo, please tell him I wish him luck."
 
I wonder what the Deputy Commander is up to. I'm guessing Tomisaburo is right and it does have something to do with Aztlan.
 
Major Yang did make it home in time. Reporting first to General Shuei's office, he found that the General himself was taking time off for the Communist Party's big celebration. No harm done; the only classified information Yang had carried out of the Western Enclave had been what he handed over in Winnipeg, and this was no more General Shuei's concern than it was Yang's. The running log he had kept of his adventures with Bert Randall was all in his dataphone, and the young man who was minding the office for the General helped Yang to get all the information downloaded into the appropriate unclassified database.

And that was that. After the National Day celebration, Yang Sung-Kuo would once again be an internal-affairs officer, currently assigned to running security at the United Nations headquarters here in Beijing. No more particular involvement with children other than his own. Though perhaps one day, on off-duty hours, he would give a talk at some school about what he had seen in America. He would think further about this after he got over the jet lag.

Yang and his Thai-born wife Tupsim had good seats in the arena where their three daughters were part of the streamer-dancing contingent: fifteen hundred girls dressed in identical colors, performing the exact same motions at the exact same time. It was of course beautiful and impressive; but somehow it was--exactly the _same_ beauty and impressiveness as all the other times. Still a proud father, and still grateful that he and Tupsim had been _allowed_ to have as many as three children, Yang made no negative remark to anyone about the uniformity of the ceremonies; he praised his girls to the skies when they were all together afterwards....but he stored in his mind the possibility of someday finding opportunities for his children to perform as individuals, maybe even doing their own choreography. His paramilitary rank had made it all the more an expected thing for his daughters to be part of patriotic rituals; but the connections he had accumulated in his career might eventually help him to steer the children in that new direction.

Wife and children caused the head of the household to spend the evening talking about his travels. He mostly told them about individuals: Bert Randall first of all, the Havens family very prominently, and others including Ma'at Wazir, young Debbie Gross, and the ailing Miguel De Soto. For logical reasons, he said not one word about Agent Tomisaburo; and for reasons of his own, he said hardly anything about Sylvia Lathrop. With Tupsim's devotion to Theravada Buddhism, a premature disclosure of the thoughts the Christian widow had set in motion for Yang could be as upsetting as if Sylvia had been a young siren and Yang had had an adulterous affair with her.

So another day passed with miscellaneous gestures of getting back to routines; also with still more storytelling by the returned wanderer. Only when the girls were in bed did Yang, close to retiring himself, chance to notice a piece of stationery paper lying on an end table. On it was handwriting in the Thai language, which Yang could recognize by sight but could not read very well. Mingled with the Sanskritic letters were Arabic numerals (which informed people knew were really _Indian_ numerals, the Arabs having adopted them from India).

"Say, Tupsim, what's this, a letter from one of your relatives back in Thailand?"

Mrs. Yang surprised her husband by looking nervous of a sudden. "It's, it's a note from Pantip." This was the name of the only other Thai woman living in their apartment complex: a dear friend and comforter to Tupsim, as they were about the same age, both women had come to be married to Chinese men under similar circumstances; and they were all the more driven to each other's company by the subtle ways in which some ethnic-Chinese women (not all) snubbed them as inferiors.

Unable to imagine any reason why Tupsim would be reluctant to tell him anything that went on with Pantip and her husband and son, Yang asked in the most casual and unthreatening tone possible, "Something of interest going on?"

Tupsim drew closer to her husband with uncharacteristically lowered eyes. "It's hard to explain: she, I mean we, that is, Pantip and I with, with some other women...."

Yang lightly took hold of her shoulders. "Dear one, don't be afraid to tell me whatever it is. Have I ever been seriously angry at you even one time in all of our life together? I love you, I trust you, and I wish to know anything that affects your happiness and well-being."

Tupsim took a deep breath. "Very well. Of course you have a right to know, and it's, well, nothing disastrous, I don't think it is. I only, that is, I never expected to be saying this to anyone."

Yang gently pulled her into an embrace. "What is it? It can't be worse than my run-in with those fanatics in Hawaii. Just tell me."

"Yes, yes. Pantip and I...have begun meeting with some other women: mostly Chinese, but also two African women who work for one of the corporations. Pantip got into it first, then invited me. That note of hers was a list....a list of....Bible verses. We're studying....Christianity."

Yang fell utterly silent for three heartbeats--of his own, that is; his wife's heart made seven beats in the same space of time. Then he brought her face in front of his, kissed her, and began laughing. "Ha haaa! And I was worried that you might be annoyed about someone talking Christianity to ME! Light of my dawn, you not only aren't upsetting me by this news--you've just freed me to tell you about my own Christian encounter in Wyoming!"

So it came about, by no plan of any mortal mind, that Major and Mrs. Yang spent the next two hours solemnly comparing the impressions they were forming of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
 
Wow, Beth, so you _have_ read all the way through and are now current with the _second_ novel? You really _are_ a fast reader! I hope you won't be disappointed if my narrative now abandons the Yangs. This still IS supposed to be a story about Alipang Havens and _his_ family. I've given plenty of attention to other characters like Major Yang and Bert Randall, _because_ their actions have an effect on Alipang's circumstances; but Alipang still is the hero of the novel. If you never hear otherwise, you may securely assume that the Major and all of his household _will_ become Christians and will go to Heaven when they die.

Meanwhile, young friend, I would like to see (here or by e-mail) your comments on the _original_ Alipang Havens story. You must have noticed that other readers had things to say while it was in progress. I would like to know what was or wasn't pleasing to you about it, and why.
 
Chapter 37: In the Room, the Women Come and Go

Neo-Marxist guerrillas, active in farming regions not far from Onitsha, gave journalist Reltseotu Smith her breakthrough in carrying out Neutron Invincible's plan of libel. Pretending friendliness to the New Vatican's private security guards, she had wheedled permission to accompany a team of them--led by the _white_ former U.S. Marine, Brendan Hyland--on a drive to a rural Catholic parish. Just before starting the trip, Reltseotu had swallowed a large quantity of Joy Nectar, so as not to show nervousness which might make the security men suspect that she was hiding her true intentions from them.

Of course, once this job was done, she would have to hide _herself_ from them--since she was about to use their own cooperation to make them look like fiendish storm troopers. She would have to leave Nigeria.

Had she known it, Brendan Hyland would be leaving Nigeria himself; after this assignment, he would be released from New Vatican service, to go active with the nameless covert army he had joined (though he would make future "guest appearances" with church security as camouflage).

Arriving in a small town which was thought likely to be the guerrillas' next target, Brendan and his men--of whom two others were white American expatriates, the rest native Nigerians--set up non-lethal defenses around the parish church and rectory, an approach that the Pope himself had called for. Not that Brendan's men could not slay enemies if directly attacked; but as far as more merciful means would do the job, they were preferred. Static defenses included infrasonic mines, and spring-gun traps to shoot tranquilizer darts. Most sophisticated was a set of panels on the building exteriors which would function like reactive armor on tanks; in case a rocket or an artillery shell struck a roof or wall, a counter-explosion would negate, or mostly negate, the force of the incoming ordnance, saving the lives of those inside. A portable master-control console for these devices was secretly given to the parish priest.

At every opportunity, Reltseotu videocorded interviews, be they short or long, with any and all members of the team, as well as with locals. She asked about many subjects, in order to get people to say many things: a library of spoken words that she would be able to edit and piece together later. The more different speeches she had, the more she could invent fictional versions of what was said, shaping it with "live" questions in her own voice which would be made up later as applicable.

But the big bonus came for her near sundown on their second day in the village. She was accompanying Brendan and some of his men on a perimeter patrol, when one of the Nigerians, looking at a hand-held sensor device, abruptly exclaimed, "Power spike!" As soon as he said this, the armed men all dropped to the ground, and the man closest to Reltseotu pulled her down also.

Brendan and his men all were looking in one direction, which was away from the village, as a tree _closer_ to the village burst into flames. Glancing back at the tree, Reltseotu remembered something she had learned years before. Laser beams in real life, unlike rayguns in old space movies, did not necessarily show a distinctly visible beam of light all along their line of fire; visibility depended on refraction conditions. Reltseotu, having her own trained reflexes as the fighters had theirs, captured video of the blazing tree; it could serve as general scene-setting for any report on violence. Brendan Hyland, meanwhile, gave his team a hand signal, in response to which three of his men opened collapsible reflective shields. Partly sheltered by these, the fighters fanned out to go after their attackers.

Ordinary gunfire was also coming from the same grove of trees which must be concealing the guerrillas' laser weapon. Between the audible placement of the enemy, and the location of the stricken tree along with the height at which its burning had begun, Reltseotu suddenly realized that if she had not been pulled to the ground, that first laser shot would probably have incinerated her instead of the tree.

But as with reflexes, she had her own version of courage. It now stiffened her bold resolve to keep at the task of defaming and vilifying these men of whom one had just saved her life. So, crawling like a soldier, she began moving in search of a position where she could record more video.

 
The Neo-Marxist fighters had their hands too full to bother shooting at the newswoman on purpose, and she was never close enough to them to be grabbed as a shield. She did get snatches of additional video, including one _highly_ valuable four-second fragment in which Brendan and one other white man, with NO black men in the frame, were clearly visible firing their weapons.

Like the portable particle beams of the American Overseers, this Class Five laser weapon had only a limited amount of power to keep it shooting, though it could shoot more than three times before its power source needed to recharge. As Reltseotu would later find out, it was designed to look like a laser saw, a tree-cutting device harmless beyond two meters' distance. The guerrillas had been posing as a tree-trimming crew; such subterfuges were necessary, with spy satellites making it virtually impossible to conceal a human _presence_ altogether.

Brendan's team had no directed-energy weapons, but Brendan and two of the Nigerians did have magnetic rail-rifles. One or another of them eventually took out the laser device itself, though not before it had badly injured two of the security men. This turned the tide; but the outnumbered guerrillas fought to the death.

Knowing that there were several farm houses in the direction from which the attackers appeared to have come, Brendan led his men to check those houses, having radioed the nearby parish priest to send help for the wounded men. What Brendan feared was proven true for the dwellers in one house: they had been murdered by silent means, including garrotting. Reltseotu intruded herself upon this horrid scene before the patrol could stop her, and inconspicuously shot video of the corpses. Brendan and his comrades were too busy forlornly looking to see if any were still alive, to pay attention to the woman's actions.

With her fine-tuned instinct for visual composition, learned from full-time camerawomen, Reltseotu contrived to get views of the corpses from such an angle that it would seem that the victims had been looking toward the right side of the camera's field of vision just before they were slain. Her shot of white men firing weapons had shown those men firing toward the left side ot the camera's field of vision. Reltseotu understood well how moviemakers used the apparent facing of characters to give an audience clues about what direction they were moving....or what groups they belonged to.

When she had the chance to use her laptop editing unit, she would create a visual sequence that included the burning tree...the two white men firing in one direction...and the dead black Nigerian citizens, lying in such a position that they might have been looking in the other direction, looking at those white men before dying. She could not explicitly SAY, "These white-supremacist gunmen are seen here murdering these innocent Africans," as the shooters had been videocorded _outdoors,_ while the victims had been killed _indoors_ and bore no definite marks of having been shot. Nonetheless, by just playing her montage while talking in generalities, she could create a _visceral_ reaction in a sufficiently gullible audience--make them _feel_ as if they had seen stereotyped fascists doing their stereotyped fascist thing.

Neutron Invincible was going to love this; it would be repeated on "The Glance" for at least three shows. And with a little karma, Reltseotu would be able to transmit her fake report from someplace not watched by HER victims, right before boarding a network-provided flight out of Nigeria.
 
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Cassandra Jefferson, after extensive debriefing at the Rainbow House, had asked on Samantha Ford's behalf that both of them be given some errand which would make them harder for Aztlano assassins to reach, during the hopefully short time it would take for Diversity States authorities to uncover the truth about whether Chief Justice Sherman Lake was or wasn't a traitor.

There were no known assassins on board the Brazilian space shuttle which was now carrying the two State Department ladies through the blazing night of space on the daylight side of Earth. Cassandra had never been weightless before; she spent much of the time holding on to Samantha for stability, some kind of reference point, even though they were belted into their seats.

Every passenger on this flight was female, including three girls under the age of ten. Seeing those youngsters made Samantha fleetingly think again about how much simpler her life would have been if her son had had the decency to be a girl. Not that she didn't love Daffodil, after a fashion...albeit a rather distant fashion. She had obtained a promise that armed Pinkshirts would be guarding Daffodil at the hospital, and then at the Boston Tolerance House if he were judged recovered enough to return there. She had also left instructions that Bert Randall should be allowed to visit the boy again if he wanted to.

Although the Chinese-owned Orbital Palace was by no means a strictly female preserve, there was an impending eight-day event there exclusively for women: an international medical seminar titled "Health Issues for Women in Zero Gravity." The Brazilian government was sponsoring it, and had paid China handsomely for the prestigious privilege of using the outer-space hotel as the seminar's venue. There was a genuine diplomatic pretext for the Ambassador-At-Large and her full-time companion to be on board the Orbital Palace: a Chinese woman from the Moon colony would be there, attending the seminar--but also available for Samantha to meet with about the possibility of scientists from the D.S.A. being allowed to visit the Moon.

"Look, there it is!" whispered Samantha into Cassandra's nearby ear, indicating the window that Cassandra had mostly _avoided_ looking at. But even the space-shy secretary did look when she realized what Samantha had seen. It ought not to be any surprise, for the shuttle was passing above India, and was currently at the general altitude of geosynchronous satellites. The object now catching sunlight was irregular in shape, but indisputably manmade.

"If we go into space again in the future," said Cassandra, holding tightly to her employer, "let's book a room on that one. It isn't so far out in the nothing."

Everyone knew that India, the one country left on Earth still strong enough to offer any serious challenge to China all by itself, was playing catch-up in space, making a slow beginning, but a beginning, at building its own commercial space station in imitation of the Orbital Palace. Visible to the two American women for three and a half minutes was the skeleton of the Indian station, due to have new segments added on before this year was out. The completed structure would stay in geosynchronous orbit, exactly above the southern tip of the Indian subcontinent. This would minimize the chances of China trying to accuse the Indian station of being used for hostile reconnaissance against China.

China's Orbital Palace, by contrast, was farther away from the atmosphere, at the level for High Earth Orbit, circling the world every thirteen hours and four minutes. If it was NOT being used for intelligence gathering, this was only because China already had all the regular spy satellites it could possibly need.

Though she would play her part in bargaining with the Chinese Lunar envoy, Samantha could not have cared less whether Americans ever set foot on the Moon again. This trip, apart from keeping herself and Cassandra safe, was merely one more exercise of her professional talents. Although it was not impossible that Cassandra might eventually grow more at ease in space, and find herself able to enjoy various low- and zero-gravity recreations with which Samantha already had some acquaintance.
 
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