Copyright 2025 Old King. All rights reserved

  Under a bruised night sky, Salt Port’s container terminal pulsed. All twelve usable berths were occupied by massive container ships. Cranes clawed under floodlights, hoisting cargo for routes to North America, East Asia, Southeast Asia, and Australia. Ships bound for Europe were scarce—chaos would grip that region for years. The cranes’ grind mixed with the salty tang of sea breeze as if the city gasped for the fading warmth of global trade. Mangled crane wrecks, scarred from the war, twisted grotesquely on the docks. Whether to repair or rebuild them was a moot point. They stood as relics of the war, frozen in time.

  In the distance, StarLink signal towers flickered with cold light, like digital ghost flames. Salt Port was one of the few legal ports the U.S. allowed East Asia to access—a rare gesture of mercy from the civilized world to the Shenzhen Republic, and a faint spark of hope for the near-extinct civilization of the East Asian continent. Undersea cables were gone; the Chinese navy, using anchors from rusted cargo ships, had severed humanity’s vital neural network in the Western Pacific. Satellite links were harder to destroy. Access was controlled by foreign powers, beyond Chinese authorities. The Great Firewall, once Beijing’s fantasy, faded beside the brutal clarity of a physical blackout.

  “Victor” Chan stood with impeccable naval posture in the top-floor office, gazing at a twin-hulled missile boat cutting through the distant sea—the pride of the South Sea Fleet and the steel keel of his career. Even in sweltering summer, he wore a hand-stitched Italian suit with double-breasted buttons. The building’s air conditioning was set to 18 degrees Celsius, not the government-mandated 25, a subtle display of the company’s privileged status. This served as the South Sea Fleet’s unofficial embassy in the Shenzhen Republic, cloaked in unspoken diplomatic immunity. The fleet’s quasi-sovereign status, born of postwar pragmatism, mirrored practices in Europe, the Middle East, and East Asia, akin to the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, a modern protectorate.

  SouthSea Logistics was the lifeline of Salt Port, the financial backbone of the South Sea Fleet, and the cornerstone of Chan’s strategic chess game. Five years ago, he led the Marines in the Plum Beach Landing. An anti-ship missile struck the combat information center of his amphibious assault ship, but he kept commanding. The campaign cost him his right leg, yet he secured victory and earned the Medal of Honor. Under U.S. mediation, the Shenzhen Republic acknowledged the South Sea Fleet’s trade privileges, leasing Salt Port to the fleet for 99 years at $500 million. SouthSea Logistics emerged as the fleet’s window, anchor, and influence in Shenzhen. Fitted with an American-made cybernetic leg, Chan smoothly retired from active duty and stepped into this trade giant's CEO role.

  “Victor, the A3 meeting room is ready!” the secretary announced, opening the door. Chan had chosen “Victor” for dealings with Americans, a name symbolizing victory, though he initially struggled to respond to it.

  Chan turned and said, “Good! Thank you!” As he walked away, he added, “You don’t need to follow!” before taking an executive elevator to the fifth basement level, a hidden floor carved covertly. The A3 chamber, sealed with submarine-grade technology, including a Faraday cage and oxygen supply, maintained an airtight, signal-isolated environment for classified meetings.

  Seeing him enter, Iron Skull sprang up with a crisp salute. Moving more slowly, Director Lin nodded. “Mr. Chan.”

  Chan nodded in acknowledgment and gestured for them to sit. They formed a triangle, sitting close, and settled into a candid discussion. He began directly. “Today, the Americans requested aid on the Soul Ore issue,” he told the pair. When Chan mentioned Americans, Director Lin’s eyes narrowed briefly. A former captain from the fleet’s political department, he belonged to a known anti-American faction. His assignment as office director marked him as a watchdog. Chan noticed, and his missing right foot throbbed with sharp pain. He suppressed it and continued, “They claim Shenzhen’s flooding markets with cheap robots—not just robots, all kinds of intelligent devices—powered by illegal Soul Ore.”

  Director Lin nodded and spoke slowly, “Indeed, exports rose over fifty percent this year. The Commerce Department reported a surge in exports last quarter, and you, Mr. Chan, called it promising—Shenzhen’s boasting high-tech worth showcasing.”

  Chan turning his gaze to Iron Skull. During the Plum Beach Landing, Iron Skull, then a Commander of the Marine Special Operations, had fought behind enemy lines with skill and valor, earning medals until shrapnel tore through his skull. The fleet authorized treatment in Chiba, Japan, to restore his cognition, for a StarLink neural enhancement module implant. Designed to boost reaction speed and data access, it relied heavily on connectivity. His surname, Tie, meaning ‘iron’ in Chinese, inspired the nickname Iron Skull after the implant.

  Iron Skull strained to think, then blurted, “Admiral—oh, sorry, Mr. Chan—What do you want our security company to do? Just give the order!”

  Chan had already anticipated their reactions—loyalty hinged on proximity, but Iron Skull’s devotion was a constant, with or without StarLink connectivity.

  He sighed and said, “Boosting trade is great, of course, a win for our fleet, right, Director Lin?” Director Lin nodded eagerly. Chan’s tone hardened. “But we must respect global trade realities and rules. Why did we lose so much when the trade war with America spiraled into all-out conflict?” He pulled out a tissue, wiped the sweat from his brow, and said, “No more grand ideals! The Americans are our key partner. We cooperate when needed.”

  Director Lin removed his glasses, wiped them, and slid them back on—a tic of deep thought. “Mr. Chan, you’re absolutely right. When you’re under their roof, you bow your head, don’t you?” His words carried compliance, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of resentment. He asked, “What kind of investigation do you want for this?”

  His words hid scheming barbs: some approaches tore through facades, others glossed over surfaces, and some shifted power under the guise of inquiry. Chan, trained at the Naval Academy as a commanding officer, lacked the polished finesse of a political operative. Still, years of tempering in the Communist military had sharpened his instincts to dodge traps. Lin was merely prodding him to set the course, ready to follow his orders. If the execution succeeded, Lin would claim credit; if it failed, he’d dodge all blame, perhaps even undermining him to secure a promotion..

  “How to investigate?” Chan glanced at Director Lin, then Iron Skull. “First, we need situational awareness through reconnaissance. The Americans are worried—Shenzhen’s AI was useless, churning out gibberish like ‘Decentralized Tech Empowerment of Proletarian Movements’ or ‘Postmodern Consumer Culture’s Nonlinear Class Erosion’. So why the sudden breakthrough? Is it mass misuse of human consciousness? It’s ethically forbidden! Digitizing consciousness is a gray area; duplicating and commercializing it is outright forbidden; autonomous robots must be driven by AI alone.” He found it almost laughable. Soul Ore was an open secret in Shenzhen—even foreign traders and regulators knew, but for profit, they’d ignore it as long as it seemed legally compliant.

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  Director Lin added cagily, “Mr. Chan, HuaCent’s own AI was indeed a flop, so they’ve been snapping up Soul Ore for years. The acquisition price has dropped to ten dollars per extraction, lower than ever. In Shenzhen, everyone—locals and foreigners—knows they’re using Soul Ore over AI. In fact, they’re mass-replicating Soul Ore. Their robot shipments don’t match population data, but the key is getting hard evidence. Without it, they’ll insist they’re using AI. The IT guy told me: the firmware on the motherboard looks the same. Unlike conventional software, AI and Soul Ore operate within neural networks as a black box, sharing the same file format once compiled and encapsulated. There’s no way to tell the difference.”

  Iron Skull’s face was clouded with confusion. His neural enhancement module was clearly useless in this signal-shielded chamber. He nodded slowly, “Over the past three or four years, they’ve been working on some digital immortality project, supposedly hoarding piles of Premium Soul Ore. Then there’s this Chest-born Project. These guys are obsessed, as if the mythical ‘Classic of Mountains and Seas’ isn’t enough to name their crazy schemes. Who knows what else they’re cooking up behind closed doors? Oh, by the way, I heard HuaCent’s put out a hundred-thousand-dollar bounty. That’s steep. Could we start digging from there?”

  Iron Skull rubbed his neural implant, wincing. “Admiral—er, Mr. Chan—port crews nabbed a few outbound Abais last week, hidden in crates marked ‘industrial components.’ It must be HuaCent’s work. We reported them, but further investigation is tricky. Customs has HuaCent’s informants inside.” Chan’s phantom foot throbbed, his face like stone. “Trace the cargo’s origin, but keep it quiet. No need to stir HuaCent’s nest yet.” He leaned back, eyes narrowing. “If those bots are Soul Ore-driven, it’s a bigger mess than we thought.” Director Lin polished his glasses, silent but thinking. Chan’s mind flickered to rumors: Salt Port’s loose checks had let HuaCent’s black-market goods flow for years, explaining why the Americans were sniffing around.

  Chan thought it over and said, “Director Lin’s approach makes sense. Work out the details later and assign the tasks. Starting today, you’ve got three weeks to deliver an internal investigation report to me. As for the operation—the code name is ‘Crossfire.’ Top secret, keep it among the three of us.”

  The air in the chamber grew heavier. steepled his fingers, a sign of scheming, “Mr. Chan, the hacker business in Bastian Mr. Tie mentioned is stirring up quite a buzz. A hundred-thousand-dollar bounty. HuaCent’s rarely so generous to outsiders. Should we assign someone to investigate it? It might lead us to some clues.” His tone was steady, eyes sharp with calculation.

  Iron Skull scratched the back of his head, the interface of his neural enhancement module glinting faintly in the dim light. “Admiral—er, Mr. Chan, HuaCent’s headquarters is right in Bastian. That place around their compound is a mess—like an insurgency hotspot. Black markets, triads, hackers, smugglers—a lawless hub. HuaCent’s drones sweep the area daily, capturing hackers with ruthless efficiency. So why aren’t they handling this themselves?”

  The phantom pain eased slightly, and Chan said in a firm, steady voice, “HuaCent has plenty of enforcers, but what they lack is an excuse. Going public with a manhunt would be admitting Bastian has something they can’t control. Director Lin, arrange a few people to investigate that hacker’s background—keep it low-key. Iron Skull, have your security team keep a close eye on the port. Don’t overlook any leads in HuaCent’s cargo shipments.”

  Director Lin nodded, the corner of his mouth curling slightly, as if scheming. Iron Skull slapped his thigh hard. “Yes, sir! Not a single container at the port escapes our eyes! HuaCent’s gang, selling robots like they’re giving them away—bound to fail sooner or later!” Director Lin cast him a glance but stayed silent.

  Chan stood, ending the meeting. The heavy door slid open, a rush of air escaping as the pressure shifted. Back in his top-floor office, he leaned against the window, Salt Port’s lights blurring in the mist. A freighter’s horn echoed, a faint pulse of Shenzhen’s lifeline. His mind churned as he recalled that last week, Terminus had sent a message through an encrypted StarLink channel, warning about modified Abais traced to Salt Port’s exports. “Cooperate, or we’ll dig ourselves,” their rep had said. Chan had brushed it off, ordering a quiet review of cargo logs, but the timing gnawed at him. If HuaCent’s Soul Ore had been slipping through his port, Terminus wouldn’t have simply requested cooperation. The StarLink tower blinked, a cold reminder of who controlled him.

  “Mr. Chan!” Old Ma’s gruff voice shattered Chan’s thoughts. The port supervisor strode in, sweat gleaming on his forehead, one of Chan’s trusted inner circle with unannounced access. “I just received word—a Dafai speedboat was detained by the fleet near Snake Estuary last night, loaded with unregistered Abais, likely black-market goods. Should I… notify Director Lin?”

  Chan frowned, lighting a Marlboro, and said, “No need. Let the fleet handle it according to protocol—find out where the cargo came from and report back to me.” Old Ma nodded, hesitated, then whispered, “Mr. Chan, dock workers say HuaCent’s ThunderVolt has been lurking, leading drones sweeping the area, spooking everyone.”

  “Thunder? Unacceptable!” Chan exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze darkening. He’d heard the name, a notorious enforcer. He paused, then said slowly, “Noted. Monitor it, but keep it quiet.” Old Ma’s fingers tightened, and he left with a nod.

  Chan leaned against the window, pain stabbing his missing right foot. His mind flashed to the Plum Beach Landing five years ago—dragging his shattered foot from the hatch, sailors’ screams echoing. He’d thought death was certain, yet commanded until US rescue helicopters arrived. He owed his life to them and the fleet. StarLink towers blinked, mocking his dependence on American authority.

  “Soul Ore…” he muttered, grinding out his cigarette. The Americans weren’t after robot exports; they targeted HuaCent’s endgame. Iron Skull’s mention of the ‘Chest-born Project’ signaled danger. HuaCent ignored all ethical limits—they’d industrialized consciousness replication. If they advanced to splitting, reassembling, or weaponizing it, the fallout could devastate SouthSea Logistics, the fleet’s privileges, and the Shenzhen Republic. He had to uncover the truth swiftly but cautiously, wary of Lin’s schemes. That man might be entangled with the New Unity Faction or the Northwest Wind Plan. Chan had heard the Political Department was colluding with northern factions, pushing for an East Asian Community of Shared Destiny.

  The secretary pushed open the door, clutching an encrypted tablet. “Victor, the Americans sent a new message, pressing us to hasten the investigation.” She paused, noticing Chan drenched in sweat. She untied her silk scarf and wiped his brow. “Victor, are you okay?”

  Chan snatched the scarf, a tight smile curling his lips. “I’m fine,” he said gently. “Tell them SouthSea Logistics will cooperate, but I won’t bow to their orders. Oh, also, arrange an upgrade for that thing, the neural implant, in Iron Skull’s head—it’s useless without a network, and that’ll cause trouble. Handle it yourself, and keep the upgrade from Director Lin.”

  His mind tangled with secrets—port lights flickering alongside them. This chessboard was sprawling wider, and he couldn’t tell who was a pawn and who held the pieces. The secretary met his intense stare, lowered her eyes, cheeks flushing. “Mr. Chan,” she said, “the staff whisper that Director Lin’s digging into you behind your back. You need to watch your six.”