In the middle of the night, a diPerent telephone rings loudly across the makeshift base. Where a warning was passed within the city earlier today, this one stretches outside of it, carried by a trickier player and containing a premonition instead. The brring-brring echoes and crackles, each pulsing second 1lled with static, each imminent word crawling underneath Shanghai’s borders instead of over, hiding from the view of prying eyes.
“Hello?”
The traitor answers. She uses English, because it could be military leaders along the line of command, checking in on the progress of the concoction. Their plan, at the very least, is shaping up nicer than its pitiful state in Manchuria. The mountains shield their movement south; the mountains watch their frantic speed, dressing the militia in play-pretend clothing, arming them with weapons that she is loath to need, because she should have given them something better by now.
“I have a bargain to make with you,” the voice on the other end says, wasting no time.
She listens.
Five minutes later, she hangs up.
That’s how she remains standing when Mr. Akiyama walks in. He’s making his rounds at this hour, seeking progress reports before retiring for the night. They plan to move again at first light, each moment spent here a risk as frostbite nips at her fingers and curses echo down her spine.
“I have to let my son go,” she says, her tone resolute. Mr. Akiyama frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s no longer useful here. There’s another purpose for him that could yield something better in return, which would accelerate my experiments significantly.”
“I still don’t see the issue. If he’s not useful, let him go.”
“The issue is that he is my son. I don’t want to let him go.” Her voice wavers, an unusual display of vulnerability. “He should be with me. By my side.”
Mr. Akiyama shakes his head, grabbing the last of the boxes stacked in the temporary base. He glances around one last time to ensure they haven’t left anything behind. Time is of the essence; they can’t afford to linger when dawn breaks. Their lodgings are always fleeting, and until they properly initiate their invasion, they must avoid drawing attention from local forces. It’s far too risky.
“Let him go,” he instructs again, already heading for the door. He calls back, “And remember, you’re a scientist, not a mother.”
The mountains seem to snatch those words like treasure. Their shadows rush in, taunting her with laughter. Do you see what we witness? they whisper. Can’t you see how poorly you’ve played this?
She grabs her bag for departure. Regret is an emotion reserved for the powerless. There is no need for it here.
