Jintao Read online

  JINTAO

  Jack Phillip Hall

  2018

  ISBN: 9781982935887

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  AD 2089, New Hong Kong

  Beyond the shutters, in the rooftop garden, wet banana leaves sway and a light rain is falling. A legion of storm clouds is drifting across the South China Sea—menacing the smaller islands—heading toward New Hong Kong.

  Master Jintao begins his day as usual, attending to the suits in his walnut-paneled dressing room. The weather outside is dismal and cold, but no matter; the silk carpet under his feet feels warm and smooth. He holds up one of his Angstrom suits and runs his fingers over the dark blue cloth, marveling at the superb craftsmanship. Angstrom suits are impeccable, made of self-cleaning fibers, manufactured by nano assemblers. They are tailored to fit him perfectly and have no seams. The label reads, “Everlasting satisfaction guaranteed.” He recalls the vidi promo: “Indestructible—able to hold up even in a nuclear storm.”

  He smiles. The suit survives, but the person turns to ash!

  There is a glint of light as a chromium arm extends toward him. He hangs the suit on the appliance and adjusts the shoulders. Then he speaks a command: “Done.” The garment is spirited away, taking its place in the upper reaches of the closet among a dozen others. Despite their prestige and high value, Master Jintao could easily live without them. The suits have become a reminder of his servitude.

  He turns away and mirrored panels slide into place, covering the garment bays.

  Narrow bands of morning light beam through the shuttered room, drawing bright lines across the floor. The sunlit stripes run up his body, tracing its contours, and his reflection stares back—the image of a fit, middle-aged Asian man, tall and lean with a square jaw and a shock of dark hair. With hands on his hips, he stretches his neck from side to side, rotates his head and arches his back.

  This is an auspicious day. It’s his birthday—yet there will be no celebration. Only a few know his age, and only he knows on which day he was born. Today there will be no pressing obligations. Today he has made time for himself. Today he begins his one hundred and twenty-sixth year.

  He smiles and a crisscross pattern forms on his lower eyelids. With the tip of his forefinger he pokes the skin. The tissue recovers slowly, revealing signs of depleted elastin and collagen.

  Crossing the room, he stops at the medi-chamber and waits while the door slides round on its semicircular track. A soft bell tone rings out and he steps in. The door rotates back, closing with a whuff. Inside, the chamber is like an old friend, protective, comforting, and discreet. He closes his eyes and iridescent mists of biologically active molecules begin to drift in—hues of yellow and green. He inhales, and infusion begins.

  It’s been a long road for Master Jintao and a long life. From his earliest memory, family expectations pushed him to excel. His was a childhood spent in constant training, preparing him for the helm of the family’s megacorp. Expectations were high and indolence was not an option. He breezed through doctorates in molecular engineering and international business and, in his mid-thirties, he was appointed president of the corporate mining division. Assembling a team of world-class engineers, his most ambitious visions were translated into reality. Scores of advanced systems were developed including deep space mining systems and orbital power stations. He became widely praised as an example of what men with vision could achieve and, as economies shifted and China became the most advanced nation on Earth, Master Jintao’s ability grew. Under his steady hand, the company became a juggernaut, traversing the hostile waters of global commerce—leaving larger companies floundering in its wake.

  Even though his corporate success was unequaled and his accomplishments were many, Master Jintao was not fulfilled. His life as a corporate chieftain imprisoned him—a life where duty eclipsed free will. For decades, he’d harbored a longing deep inside. If only he were given the opportunity, he would retreat from the world, far from the demands of his office. He would seek solitude, where he could regain his humanity and contemplate the deeper mysteries. His desire for freedom went largely unsatisfied. He confined himself with a will of iron, separated from many of the simple pleasures of life . . . and there was also the problem of an heir.

  China’s “One Child” policy deprived Master Jintao of siblings, and the dynasty’s future had come to rest squarely on his shoulders. Being as he was the last of his bloodline, it was necessary and expected that he would produce an heir. The circumstance troubled him and, shortly after passing his one-hundred-year mark, he began to have dreams—dreams of children he didn’t have, playing at his feet, vying for his attention. The dreams became waking visions of marriage and children, and the idea ruminated for months. Weighing the time that a family would take away from his corporate duties versus the need for a legitimate heir he knew something had to be done and time was slowly sifting away.

  He quickly discarded the idea of a surrogate. The potential for unpredictable genetic results was a nonstarter, not to mention the legal entanglements. He considered replicating his genome but cloning required government oversight and often resulted in weakened offspring—totally unacceptable.

  The debate went on for months, searching for a viable solution, until the day a workaround presented itself. If his gene expressions were modified using some sort of natural randomizer, the resulting genetic structure would not be classified a clone. Nor would the resulting embryo be considered “engineered.” He imagined that the modified helix could be inserted into a sterile ovum and made to reprogram the newly inserted DNA to a more youthful state in order to drive embryonic development—like restoring the factory settings on an electronic appliance. A surrogate could be contracted to carry the fetus to term. In the end, the integrity of his family line would be preserved without involving another’s genetic history.

  Master Jintao carried the idea forward. He procured the most advanced equipment money could buy and set up a private laboratory at the Jintao Corporation. He taught himself CRISPRDAR17 gene-editing techniques and began to look for natural algorithms to randomize his genome. The challenge was exciting and it gave him a sense of freedom. He was exploring a new frontier and, after a few trials, he was able to generate a flawless helix—a helix with slightly modified expressions of his epigenome—a naturally randomized version of himself.

  A surrogate was hired, and nine months later, a baby boy was given over to him. The infant was as close to a natural extension of the family line as he could have hoped for—related but not an exact clone. The baby was healthy and robust with striking green eyes and boundless energy, and Master Jintao was delighted. At last he accomplished something of a personal nature, away from the bureaucracy of corporate life.

  He hired a nanny to see to the child’s day-to-day needs and, as the years passed, the best tutors and physical trainers were brought in. Every week Master Jintao would spare a few hours to teach the boy the value of knowledge, the endless search for truth, and the responsibility of his birthright. As the boy’s intellect grew, he showed strong potential for leadership; and, to Master Jintao’s great satisfaction, the boy grew confident and cultured, maturing into a personable young man.

  Master Jintao steps out of the medi-chamber and pauses while the vapor on his skin evaporates. Above the lofty glass roof, the sky is dark and rain is coming down steadily. A flash lights the sky and his ears pick up the sound of distant clouds unleashing their charge. Hidden actuators silently turn, opening the wet atrium shutters, and across the dressing room floor, ribbons of light gradual
ly widen.

  He stares at a place far beyond the mirror, focusing on the day that lies ahead of him. This is an auspicious day, a day without obligation—so rare—and so daunting. His eyes have their characteristic look of unwavering confidence. Everything is exactly as it should be. His son is away at college and the man in the mirror is free to do as he pleases.

  He touches his upper cheek. The tissue responds more quickly now, of indeterminate age. He feels his chin—strong, like his father’s and like his son’s. There is no stubble now—follicles were obliterated by laser long ago. He takes hold of his arm and feels the muscles—still firm, the ligaments still supple.

  In the mirror he sees the quintessential hominid—ever curious about its origins—and about its purpose.

  Why the bilateral symmetry? he wonders. Why not trilateral? Or quadrilateral? Questions requiring deeper reasoning. The body is a constellation of molecules, a federation of trillions of cells—made of constituent parts that work together—a world unto itself, separated into different nation-states. Each organ is sovereign and yet cooperates with the whole. The body is an enigma, a gift from an anonymous benefactor.

  So many questions. Why did inert matter become animated? Why did life spring into being? A thermodynamic redistribution of solar energy? Nature’s quest for steady state? Just random chance? So many mysteries yet unsolved.

  After decades of procrastination, Master Jintao has finally accepted that the only way he will ever break free from his daily obligations is to pick a date and, at long last, the day has arrived. He is ready, bound for a secret place -- a place where he can think and explore without interruption -- a place he calls the Estuary.

  1.

  In early evening, rivulets were cascading down the two-story glass walls of the penthouse and, overhead, wet airborne vehicles sped past with trailing sprays that seemed to hesitate before falling hundreds of meters to the pedways below. Inside, the Jintao housekeeper stood next to the glass wall, her dark Asian eyes examining a wisp of vapor that materialized in front of her. It twisted and folded on itself, shimmering like a piece of cellophane in a breeze. Not sure just what it was, or which side of the glass it was on, she squinted to bring it into focus. Perhaps a reflection, she thought. The light plays tricks. Rotating slowly, the image faded from view, as if avoiding closer inspection.

  She turned and crossed the room, stopping at a large polycarbonate table, clear as diamond. At its center stood a vase with the cut flowers she had carefully arranged: hybrid freesia, deep blue iris, and stout yellow calla lilies. How simple and pure, she thought, no memories, no thoughts, but still transpiring—siphoning water even in death.

  At the far end of the table, a solitary place setting of gold-edged bone china stood waiting—waiting for Master Jintao. She stood by and remembered—decades earlier, she was given the assignment to serve him. The offer came through domestic dispatch, with a single requirement: She was to change her identity to Ning, the name of his previous housekeeper and nanny. It made no difference to her; the elevated position was more than ample reward. She underwent voice coaching and a few minor appearance modifications and, as these things go, after a short while it was as if she had always been Ning.

  Walking to the outer glass wall again, her eyes followed a glide as it slowly cruised past, its curious occupant eyeing the penthouse. Unfazed, she watched from the inside of the one-way-mirror glass. Below her, the structures of South Point sparkled in the darkness—magnificent hives for a privileged few. Minutes trickled by as she waited for the soft bell tone that would announce her benefactor’s return. Anytime now his glide would enter rooftop bay . . . anytime now the signal would come.

  It was late and there was no com talk from Master Jintao. That was unusual, but it was all right. He was a man of great responsibility and important works, and it was his habit to work through his daily checklist until the last item was completed, no matter how late. And yet . . . this was the first time she was not told of a late arrival.

  Moving through the extensive quarters of the penthouse, she passed the kitchen and her room, pausing at the master’s son’s room, closed since he left for university. Pictures and music, memorabilia and mini-bots stood on shelves, exactly as he left them. She continued onward, passing the atrium and the master’s suite with its private study and lush terrace. She rounded the north wing and the guest quarters and there she turned back. Eventually she returned to the great front room and, once again, she stood by the glass wall and looked to the dwellings below. Beyond the structures, dark waters of the China Sea churned and her thoughts became as nebulous as the distant horizon. Suddenly a lightening pop lit the waters, revealing turbulent, sharp-edged waves, cresting black with white caps. Without averting her eyes, her fingers followed a loose strand of hair, tucking it carefully into the bun at the back of her head.

  Almost two hours passed and still no com talk. She touched a quadrant of the disk embedded in her wrist. The house responded, projecting a menu. She opened a line and initiated the call. His private extension bipped without answer. He might be working on the Zeurb acquisition, she thought, or expansion plans for the Jintao Space Division or the hostile take-over threat she heard him speak of.

  Pressing the disk again, she spoke the company name and department icons winked into view.

  The hour is late, she thought. Com center has gone auto.

  “Operator,” she said.

  Instantly, the head and shoulders of an avatar appeared in front of her, its face expressionless, lips barely moving, enunciating in perfect Mandarin. “Housekeeper Ning—you’ve reached Jintao Corporation. How may we assist you?”

  “Dr. Jintao was expected here ninety-two minutes ago; I need to know when he will arrive.”

  “Please wait.” The hologram froze. Its inner protocol opened several channels at once, sending search routines across the corporate intranet. A dozen microseconds later, the operator reanimated. “Egress history for Dr. Jintao: last departure—yesterday, aeropad B, eighteen hundred hours, fifty-three minutes—no scheduled meetings—no transponder signal—transporter activity negative—com link: unresponsive.” The avatar continued with preprogrammed assurances that appropriate personnel would be notified and Ning would be contacted as soon as her employer was located. Ning disconnected before the anticipated salutation, “Thank you for contacting the Jintao Corporation.”

  With the news that Master Jintao hadn’t gone to his office since the previous day, Ning’s apprehension rose to a new level. There was nothing on the household calendar to explain where he might have gone and the company wasn’t able to add information. Her brow knitted. He was a multifaceted man, dealing with complexities that were beyond her realm of understanding, but the lack of protocol . . . it was unprecedented. Although, she reasoned, a man of prominence was not to be held accountable by those in his employ. Even so, the lack of communication was very unusual.

  Ning went to the kitchen galley and commanded the NutriSynth system to reset dinner from delay to halt. Next, she ordered the cabinet shelves to rotate, bringing down a large ceramic jar, embossed with clouds and five-fingered dragons. The jar hissed as she broke its vacuum seal and removed its lid. Reaching in, she pinched three fingers of pale green tencha leaves and spread them on the countertop. She began to carefully de-vein and de-stem the dry leaves. Then she transferred the select pieces to a stone mortar and began to slowly grind them into a talc-like powder. She would combine the resulting matcha with milk and a dash of sugar—cook it and chill it. The resulting green tea ice cream would be served for the Master’s dessert. It was an ancient recipe—handed down through his family—a recipe he was fond of and one that would take time to prepare.

  While Ning tended to her cookery, security protocols at the Jintao Corp branched out, looping for fifty minutes, attempting to locate the CEO, consistently returning without closure. At the end of the hour, a report automatically dispatched to Prefecture Law Enforcement, and within seconds police were scanning hospi
tal logs and traffic reports. Minutes later detectives began conducting face-to-face interviews at private clubs where Master Jintao held memberships—clubs where they often found sequestered executives.

  Before the second hour elapsed, ring tones sounded at the penthouse door. Molecules within the frosted glass shifted to reveal a lone figure outside: a middle-aged woman with dark eyes, standing stoically as rain shed from her transparent plastic hood. Behind her a black police glide with yellow markings hovered just above the landing pad, its blue and red lights flashing.

  “May I help you?” asked Ning.

  Holding up a backlit ID badge, Lieutenant Zhao of Prefecture Law Enforcement, Detective Grade 2, held up a backlit ID badge introduced herself.

  Ning commanded the door to perform a scan and cross-check against public records. Instantly, the door displayed the word “VERIFIED.” Ning opened the door and offered to take the lieutenant’s wet raincoat. Hanging the garment in a HEPA stream to dry, she asked the officer if there was any news of her employer.

  The lieutenant’s tone was resolute. “We’ll talk about that.”

  Ning led the lieutenant into the great front room and offered a table for two near the great glass wall. The officer pulled out one of the chairs and paused, studying the room while Ning took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Zhao lowered herself into the chair and fixed her attention on Ning while unbuttoning her jacket. From a pocket, she withdrew a small black card with yellow characters printed across its face and, placing the card on the table between them. She asked for permission to record.

  Ning glanced at the card, then looked up at the detective. The request was new to Ning and she delayed. There they sat, neither of them relaxed, backs not touching the chairs, attention fixed on each other, saying not a word. Zhao had seen this kind of hesitation before, not altogether unusual in situations like this. Formal depositions sometimes made people feel uncomfortable. Zhao was good at reading people; she could spot the liars and she was seldom wrong. She decided Ning wasn’t one of them—just a typical domestic servant, taken out of her normal routine and put under a microscope, perhaps for the first time. Given the circumstance, Zhao looked for pupils to dilate. Ning’s didn’t. There were physiological disorders that could account for the lack of autonomic response—curious nevertheless.