National Interest

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Earth, 22:37 Freetown Time, Sierra Leone.

Republic of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Temporary Prison.

The so-called temporary prison meant that, as of 8:00 p.m. on May 11, 2012, all the prisons in every city throughout Sierra Leone had been filled to capacity, yet new “guests” kept arriving in droves.

To avoid disappointing these latecomers, the Sierra Leonean police thoughtfully requisitioned hundreds of schools, dormitories, factories, and private homes.

With a clang, the hastily installed iron door swung open, and a man with a bruised face and bloodstained clothes was shoved, stumbling, into the cell.

Pitiful fellow, he crawled up from the filth, his bewildered eyes taking in his surroundings—this was evidently a pigsty converted into a cell, the air thick with stench. The cramped space already held four unfortunate souls: three huddled together, the fourth with his head bowed, shrinking into the corner.

“Hey…” The three pressed together shifted, making room on the short bench beneath them, and the shortest of the trio beckoned. “Newcomer, come, sit… what’s your name?”

“I… I…” The newcomer wiped his nose, smearing away a streak of blood, and walked over timidly, but did not sit. “My name is Aruba.”

“Sit down, Aruba…” The short man reached out and pulled Aruba to his side. “Tell us, what did you do? How’d you get caught?”

“I… I don’t know, I was just walking down the street, then suddenly…” As he spoke, Aruba glanced nervously at the space beyond the cell door. On the other side of the iron bars stood a Sierra Leonean policeman, dark-skinned, cautiously keeping to the corner, beside a group of heavily armed, fierce-looking, blond, blue-eyed NATO soldiers.

Aruba pointed carefully, “A few men like that rushed over, pinned me down and beat me… then I ended up here…”

“What were you doing at the time?” the short man asked.

“I… I wasn’t doing anything! I was just walking…” As he spoke, Aruba began to sniffle.

“You must have done something.” The short man shook his head. “Think carefully, what exactly were you doing?”

“At that moment… there was an iron bird flying overhead, I looked up for a while, thought it was interesting.”

“Did you smile?”

“Um… I think so…”

“What time was this?”

“Just now, right before I was brought in.”

“I see, Aruba, you’ve gotten yourself in trouble. You laughed at the wrong moment—there was a picture moving in the sky then, and it was almost over.”

“A picture! Oh no! A picture!” Aruba clutched his hair and yanked, starting to weep. “I have nothing to do with the picture! I don’t know the picture! I don’t know anyone who knows the picture! Oh no… I’m done for… I’m finished… Mother…”

The four others sighed in unison.

Alas…

Poor child.

After a while, Aruba raised his head, “What about you all, why are you here?”

The short man sighed. “Same as you, I got tangled up with the picture… I was coming home from the store, a neighbor upstairs asked if I could bring him some liquor. I had no money on me, so I waved my hand at him, and just like that, I got tied up with the thing in the sky…”

“As for me…” said the man next to the short one, “I was at home, and the mirror was by the window. I guess the angle was off, and the picture in the sky was reflected into the mirror. Then I ended up here.”

“You’re better off than me. I got drunk at a bar, woke up here. The police said someone near me was talking about the picture in the sky and brought me in for a few days.”

“What about you?” Aruba asked the last man, the one with his head bowed, hunched in the corner.

The man shuddered, turned away, saying nothing, his head dropping lower.

“Don’t talk to him,” the short man quickly pulled Aruba back. “He just injured two people during a robbery, nothing serious…”

After these few forced exchanges, silence fell over the cell, each man lost in anxious worry.

Some time passed. Three soldiers arrived, the local policeman opened the cell, and the soldiers led away the man furthest on the bench.

A while later, three new soldiers came and took another.

And so, the men beside Aruba grew fewer and fewer; those taken did not return. In the end, only Aruba and the man in the corner remained.

Soon, the clanging of the cell door echoed again. This time, three soldiers seized Aruba, hauling him through two sets of doors and shoving him into a large room.

It was an interrogation room.

There were four seats inside; the one at the end was occupied by a local Sierra Leonean official, the rest by pale, blond, blue-eyed Europeans.

Aruba had no seat.

The interrogation began swiftly.

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The central interrogator began with questions: name, age, address, occupation. Aruba answered obediently.

Once the basics were clear, the interrogator glanced at his file. “Do you know about the fire at the Revolutionary United Front office on May 8, 2012?”

“Yes, I live right next door…”

The interrogator nodded, jotting down: Prior knowledge of the assassination incident.

“When did you first notice anything unusual in the sky?”

“I saw it from the very beginning.”

He wrote: Closely monitoring developments.

“What were you doing when you were apprehended?”

“I was walking down the street, about to buy some liquor.”

He wrote: Preparing to purchase weapons and supplies.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything, I don’t know anything, please let me go… let me go…” Aruba began to sob.

He wrote: Shows signs of counter-surveillance awareness, possibly trained.

“All right, sign here.”

“I… I can’t write…”

Bang! The butt of a rifle struck Aruba’s head. In the next moment, a strong arm seized his thin right hand, dipped it in the fresh blood from his forehead, and pressed his fingerprint onto the confession.

“That’s enough, take him away…”

With a wave, the interrogator finally noted: Preliminary identification, high-level suspect, to be sent to base for further interrogation.

Three soldiers escorted Aruba out, bundling him into a car.

“Where are we… where are we going?” The road grew emptier and emptier, and Aruba, increasingly uneasy, finally dared to ask the driver.

The answer came as another blow from a rifle butt.

Half an hour later, the car carrying Aruba arrived at the gates of a hastily constructed NATO field base.

Ten minutes later, the car reappeared at the base’s entrance.

Aruba never reappeared.

Ever.

Thirty-Eight: National Interests (Part II)

Earth, Beijing Time, May 11, 2012, 6:37 a.m.

U.S. Embassy in China.

“What? What did you say? Country Z agreed?”

The U.S. ambassador to China, Mr. Boris, could scarcely believe his ears. He sprang to his feet, not even noticing the pile of documents that spilled off his desk.

“No, Mr. Ambassador, not just agreed… look…”

The counselor, who had just entered bearing good news, quickly pulled aside the blinds. “Ambassador, Country Z not only agreed, they’ve already unilaterally fulfilled our request! The celestial phenomenon on the 11th ended ahead of schedule!”

Outside, the sky was gloomy and gray, with not even a cloud discernible—identical to the ordinary skies of the capital three days ago.

“This… this is impossible…” Boris rubbed his wide, startled eyes and fumbled at his sleeve—yes, 6:37 a.m.

“How can this be?” Lowering his sleeve, the ambassador’s lips trembled as he muttered, “It really ended early… how is this possible? How could Country Z possibly agree to such a proposal…”

“Ambassador, perhaps our terms were too generous, Country Z was momentarily—”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Boris’s voice rose several octaves. “Contact Washington immediately, request the latest update on the celestial event!”

The counselor hurried from the room, as if another second in Boris’s presence would see him reduced to ashes by the ambassador’s weary, flaming gaze.

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The door closed behind him.

Boris stared again at the gray sky, then at his watch, once more sinking into his chair, deep furrows creasing his brow.

Impossible… how could this be…

Too generous? Nonsense! That fool…

It had been nearly four days since the first celestial event.

In those four days, although nations had not agreed on whether to make the matter public, regardless of denial or admission, during the phenomenon’s duration, every country had scrambled to invent bizarre explanations and issue emergency warnings about possible injury to their citizens.

Inevitably, all sectors and industries across the globe began suffering serious losses.

Equally inevitable: the severity of these losses was directly, almost bell-curve shaped, in proportion to distance from Country Z.

Most predictably, the United States, on the opposite hemisphere from Country Z, suffered most severely.

Thus, over these four days, on behalf of the United States, Mr. Boris had submitted countless diplomatic notes to the foreign ministry of Country Z.

At first, the U.S. claimed that the Wu Qingchen incident was not an isolated national issue but one requiring global resolution, to be handled by the United Nations; Country Z replied that, as a responsible great power, it had the confidence and ability to address any issue involving its own country.

Next, the U.S. asserted that, regardless of whether this was Earth’s sole connection to Country Z’s world, Mr. Wu Qingchen was first and foremost a living human with all the sacred rights thereof, and Country Z could not unilaterally cut off his contact with the outside world. Any nation, especially the U.S., had the right to interact with Mr. Wu; Country Z replied that its ancient civilization, deep culture, and strong human rights record guaranteed Mr. Wu’s safety and interests, and that he could communicate with any nation or organization at any time—the current measures were only to protect him as they would any citizen.

Soon after, the U.S. claimed that, according to new findings from the immigration office, on March 27, 2005, at 1:33 p.m., Mr. Wu had replied to a forum post, expressing appreciation for the American system and sports environment, which constituted an immigration application. After strict review and investigation, U.S. authorities determined he met all requirements for immigration, with completed paperwork and legal effect, and demanded Country Z surrender its American citizen, Mr. Wu.

Immediately, Country Z retorted that, according to their investigation, Mr. Wu’s comment at the time was: “Yes, the American moon is so round, and the Pacific Ocean isn’t covered; why don’t you swim across?” The language of Country Z is rich and profound; the U.S.’s unilateral interpretation was absurd and rigid, lacking legal standing. Moreover, as a capitalist society, America’s backwardness, alienation, and high living costs made it an undesirable destination; Country Z would accordingly advise caution.

The U.S. objected, saying these accusations were gross distortions. Moreover, Mr. Wu need not worry about the American environment—the state legislature had just passed the “Qingchen City Project,” to build a replica of his home county, welcoming any of its citizens to apply for immigration.

Country Z replied that America’s environment was poor and happiness index low, advising misled citizens to think clearly and choose wisely.

The U.S. objected again, insisting that tests showed their chosen city’s environment was ideal by international standards.

Country Z countered that American standards did not conform to international practice; Country Z’s own standards should be used, with their experts invited for reassessment.

The U.S. objected… objected… protested! Strong protest! The strongest condemnation!

In short, the reasons for negotiation were myriad and bizarre, the process thoroughly unpleasant, and the result…

There was no result.

Both the leaderships of Country Z and the U.S. knew well that, regarding the celestial event, the two could certainly cooperate on a large scale. But as for Wu Qingchen, the event’s central figure, Country Z would never cede any rights or make any concessions.

Yet, to appease the fury of domestic power blocs and industry associations, the U.S. State Department was forced to issue all manner of outlandish statements and make demands that were obviously impossible.

The latest demand was no different.

To minimize losses, many forces in the U.S. repeatedly urged the State Department to negotiate for a change in Wu Qingchen’s schedule.

From hardline, to moderate, to increasingly weak requests…

From seeking to protect American interests, to balancing with Country Z, to simply trying to mitigate American losses as much as possible…

This day, Boris’s petition was reduced to pleading with Country Z to consider ending the day’s celestial event a little earlier, so that Wu Qingchen would go to sleep just a little bit sooner, allowing the U.S. to avoid the West Coast’s 8 a.m. and East Coast’s 1 p.m. peak periods. In exchange, the U.S. was willing to compensate for Country Z’s losses through tariff adjustments, patent transfers, and large-scale project cooperation.

According to the White House, the Pentagon, and Boris’s own judgment, Country Z would, of course, refuse.

Indeed, in a sense, the counselor’s view was correct: the conditions offered by the U.S. were extremely generous, far exceeding Country Z’s economic losses from a slight change in the schedule.

But that fool saw only the surface, not realizing that changing the schedule would mean more people directly witnessing the celestial event and facing unknown threats, causing massive social unrest.

If Country Z was willing to accept such an exchange, Boris pressed his forehead, a deep sense of foreboding rising within him.

Bang!

The door burst open again. The counselor, pale as death, stumbled back into the room.

Five minutes later, after hastily reading the Pentagon’s latest update on the celestial event, Boris’s face, too, was drained of all color.

“Ambassador, since they ended it early under duress, can we—should we withdraw the compensation we promised…”

“Idiot! You fool!” Boris’s roar thundered through the room. “Don’t you get it yet? I’m certain Country Z never even looked at our terms! Not once! From start to finish! You fat pig, you son of a whore, the world is about to end and you’re still thinking about those damned conditions?”

“F*** you! You cowherd! Take your conditions and your fat carcass and get out of my office!”