Copyright 2025 Old King All rights reserved

  In SouthSea’s top-floor office, a dark-skinned Abai lounged on a couch, legs crossed, talking with Victor Chan. This was no ordinary robot—a BioSynth Vanguard Alpha powered by BioSynth Venture and Tesla’s advanced technology. It was a privilege that filled Victor Chan with envy. Terminus Corporation, the parent company of Tesla and SpaceX, mandated it as a way to avoid the long-distance travel costs and risks of physical presence in dangerous areas.

  This allowed James to transmit his consciousness directly into the Abai through a neural interface while staying in America. Senses were transmitted at 98% fidelity, with harmful signals, such as pain and burns, filtered out. Under the U.S. Consciousness Immigration Act, foreigners were required to have a remote access visa to use this method for visiting America. The SouthSea Fleet, though cooperating with the United States in the South China Sea, was still deemed a potential threat. Victor Chan, a SouthSea Fleet officer, could only visit America through physical travel.

  The Abai spoke, and it was James’s voice, converted into Mandarin by the voice module. James's consciousness was transmitted and resynthesized in the voice module. He said, "This time, I am meeting with you in person because some matters require extreme caution and cannot even be sent through encrypted networks."

  Chan smiled and said, “James, we fully understand your side’s concern regarding the suspected export of Soul Ore-related products. Upon receiving your notification, we took swift measures to address the issue…”

  The Abai interrupted, " Victor, no diplomatic rhetoric, please. I’m merely a special advisor for Terminus. HuaCent’s Soul Ore is a serious issue—it makes that old case of leaking U.S. tech to terrorist countries look like a kid swiping candy.’ He waved off the subject and added, ‘But right now, something far more serious is forcing us to deal with HuaCent quickly. From here on, no note-taking, understood?"

  Then, the Abai pulled a card-sized device from his pocket. The device beeped twice as he placed it on the nearby sofa, which irritated Chan. He said, " James, relax. We’re not recording or filming here. You really don’t need to do that."

  The Abai looked up, shrugging, "Sorry, it's our SOP." Chan paused, catching Director Lin's displeased grimace from the corner of his eye. The Abai scanned the three of them and said, "Alright, let's get to business. About 10 days ago, South African president was attacked..."

  Lin leaned back. “James, the CIA’s got a long history in Africa. This South African mess—any chance they’re stirring the pot?” His tone was light, probing, but his eyes flicked to Chan, gauging their reactions. If James slips up or Chan picks a side, the Northern Faction gains leverage, Lin thought, his pulse steady. Chan shot him a warning glance, masking his irritation. The Abai chuckled, unfazed. “Lin, you read too many spy novels. Terminus doesn’t play those games.” Lin’s smile widened, but his mind was already plotting the next move.

  Chan studied his face and gestures, marveling at the Abai’s ability to capture subtle micro-expressions. The Abai sat straight and said, “Politics isn’t our concern… What we care about is that the attempt was made by a BioSynth Vanguard Alpha, a personal companion bot for the president—your so-called Abai.” He pointed to his nose, “The exact same model I’m riding now.”

  Chan instinctively leaned back, reaching for his imaginary sidearm, while the secretary, pale with shock, gasped. Lin’s face was ashen, and his lips twitched.

  “Guys, guys, no need to freak out… I understand your shock—we were stunned when we heard.” The Abai said with an awkward but reassuring grin. “The safety of Tesla robots is subject to rigorous validation.”

  Lin, for once getting the upper hand in a tussle with an American, sat up straighter, pressing his advantage. “That Bio… Bio-whatever; that Abai, can actually kill people! As we Chinese say human life is paramount! What about those three… robot laws?” He glanced across the coffee table at Chan. “Victor, am I right?”

  The Abai brushed off nonexistent dust from his pants, glanced at Lin, and said, “You’re talking about the three laws of robotics—that’s sci-fi stuff. Doesn’t hold up in the real world; too many logical loopholes. As for the Tesla robot product line…” He turned to Chan, dead serious. “We can guarantee completely they won’t harm their users.”

  Chan shot Lin a look to hush him, then turned to the Abai. “Never mind. If you’re sure there’s no issue, then why did this happen? And what’s this got to do with our fleet—uh, I mean, SouthSea Transport?”

  The Abai said, “The president's guards ‘invited’ our local representative and tech service team to the presidential palace. The techs checked the product and found the core system was completely fragmented. The system files were destroyed.”

  Chan exchanged a glance with Lin, again. Just yesterday, Lin had reported a similar issue to him. The Abai continued, “This kind of system failure was unfamiliar to us. However, after investigation, we found similar issues in illegally modified products from Shenzhen. We believe the product behind this unfortunate incident was of the same nature as I just described.”

  The Abai’s eyes locked on Chan, James’s voice steady. “Our team traced the South African Abai’s sale to a Vietnamese black-market dealer, who sourced it from Salt Port’s unregistered exports. A log with HuaCent signatures was found in a recovered fragment later in the Tesla lab. It clearly ran on Soul Ore, not Tesla AI. We’ve been tracking these shipments for a week, Victor. That Abai was programmed to assassinate the president, and HuaCent’s fingerprints are all over it. We're looking at a corporate war if this ties to their bid against us in South Africa’s grid project.” Chan’s phantom foot burned, his mind racing. Salt Port, his port, was the weak link.

  A smuggled, modified Abai had made its way to South Africa, attempted to assassinate the president, and possibly aimed to manipulate a government tender through a coup. This was no small matter, far beyond a black market transaction. He took a sip of water to feign calm and said to the Abai, “James, SouthSea Transport has recently tightened checks on cargo, especially for smuggled Abais—uh, your robots. As for HuaCent’s use of Soul Ore, our investigation has just begun… About the Shenzhen government…”

  “Regarding the Shenzhen Republic government, we’ve got our ways to handle talks…” The Abai paused. Obviously, the government was heavily influenced by HuaCent. They could do little, even if they wished to. James shifted gears. “Legal restrictions stop Tesla from exporting high-end robots to the former China region, including Shenzhen, but the StarLink partnership with you has been solid. We need you to eradicate HuaCent’s ability to mod robots. If SouthSea Transport—let’s be real, the South Sea Fleet—can’t deal with this threat for us, we will revoke your exclusive agency rights for StarLink access.”

  Chan’s blood was boiling—it was virtually an ultimatum. Lin was smirking. They both knew what it meant, but with different implications.

  “Cut StarLink, and Shenzhen’s done,” James said, pointing at the tower’s cold glow. “Your port’s Transport grind to a halt—cranes, servers, trade, all dead. HuaCent’s operations, factories, and trade will choke without our internet. Social unrest? Try riots in a week. You think the Republic can handle that?” Chan’s gut twisted, his mind racing with visions of Salt Port’s chaos.: billions lost daily, the Fleet’s trade tanked, his legacy in ashes. Although infuriated, he forced a tight smile. “We’ll cooperate, James. The government is infiltrated by HuaCent and powerless to act. SouthSea is the only ally you can count on. We’ll help, but not because of your damn threat.”

  The Abai’s synth-eyes glinted, unreadable. James made a solid point—the following chaos was easy to imagine. Chan glanced at Director Lin, who was polishing his glasses again, a slight smirk playing on his lips as if he was scheming something. They couldn’t afford to cross Tesla, let alone the U.S.

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  Lin said casually, “Victor, James has a point. But I’d suggest we keep things low-key for now, dig into it quietly, and not rattle HuaCent just yet. Their economic clout, tech know-how, and sheer numbers are formidable. They’ve got over 400,000 employees in Shenzhen alone. Add in their supply chain, relatives, and friends, and you’re looking at maybe 2 million people, over a fifth of Shenzhen’s population. Sure, they’re no Terminus, but they’re the big fish in Shenzhen’s little pond. We should conduct comprehensive reconnaissance to identify their critical nodes and meticulously develop a detailed operational plan. Then, we should execute a decisive, rapid, and precise strike with overwhelming force to achieve our strategic objectives efficiently, with indomitable resolve to defeat all adversaries.”

  Lin’s tone bordered on sycophantic, but Chan was disgusted—a political hack acting as a commanding officer? He wanted to delay the operation and let it fail. Still, Lin had a point: HuaCent was a chess piece heavy enough to tip the board’s balance, the opponent’s queen. Chan had learned that Lin secretly contacted the New Unity Faction in the north. If the Shenzhen Republic failed, it might be a stronger chance for the reunification of China. Chan raised his eyes to the Abai, “Understood, James. We’ll wrap this up in one month!”

  The Abai’s voice synthesizer let out a grunt. “One month’s too long, Victor. Fifteen days! I’ll be waiting for results.” James leaned forward, the Abai’s synth-skin eerily still. “We’ve been digging a week already, Victor—Vietnam, South Africa, Salt Port. You’ve got 15 days to shut down HuaCent’s Soul Ore pipeline.” Chan’s jaw tightened, anger flaring. “Fifteen days? That’s how you ask help from an ally? Investigating HuaCent is like cracking a fortress. Give me 30.” James’s voice hardened. “Twenty, max. That’s the line. South Africa’s tender closes soon, and we can’t let HuaCent tank our bid.” Chan nodded, masking his fury. Twenty days was a death march, but he’d play the game—for now.

  The Abai nodded to the group, then got up to head back to his office. Director Lin stood, speaking deliberately, “Mr. Chan, I’ll get right on intensifying the investigation. Manager Tie—should be all set, right?” Chan shot him a cold glance. “Iron Skull’s business? I handle that myself.”

  Chan glanced out the window after wrapping up his call with Iron Skull. The sun was already dipping low, past regular office hours. Feeling restless, he gave his secretary a few instructions and headed downstairs. Day-shift workers were clocking out. He drove slowly out the gate and noticed a crowd of workers gathered by the roadside. He knew it was another preacher. An old man, gaunt and dark-skinned, was speaking in a steady voice. This Filipino preacher had been active in the area for two years. Feeling troubled and dejected, Chan decided to listen to the preacher. Parking his car, he lit a cigarette, leaned against the vehicle, and tuned in. The old man declared in Mandarin, “The Bible says, ‘The Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul, named Adam.’ The body is the flesh we see and touch; the spirit is the part that connects with God. Selling your consciousness disrupts God’s created order.” His gaze swept over the workers. “Some people buy your consciousness, turning it into Soul Ore—copying human minds into machines. Is that right?”

  The old man’s worn but clean clothes swayed slightly in the sea breeze, the sunset casting a glow on his resolute face. The workers buzzed with chatter. A burly man, face smeared with grease, shouted, “Consciousness? That airy-fairy stuff? Let ‘em copy it—it doesn’t mess with me. They say we reincarnate after death, right? Soul Ore is like getting a head start on that!” The crowd murmured in agreement.

  The old man didn’t get upset, just smiled and said, “Good question, brother! Hebrews 9:27 says, ‘It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.’ We get one life, and after death, we face God’s judgment—not some cycle of rebirths. If there is no memory, how does a past life affect this one? Without memory, what value does reincarnation hold? A consciousness stripped of memory becomes an exploited ghost, used as a tool by others. Your soul is not for sale.”

  Chan exhaled a puff of smoke, the old man’s words hitting him like a jolt. He had always thought about consciousness and Soul Ore in terms of economics, tech, and international regulations—Souls had never crossed his mind. The preacher’s words, like a needle, pierced his usual rational armor. As the workers dispersed, he stepped forward. “Sir, uh, Master, what’s the deal with these Soul Ores?”

  Packing up, the old man turned and gave Chan a warm smile. “Mr. Chan, my name is Joseph. I’m a priest, but folks just call me Father Joe. It’s getting windy out here—how about we talk later at the church?” Chan was taken aback; the preacher’s knowledge of his identity was uncanny. He nodded. “Alright, see you at 2030 hours then!”

  The small chapel near Salt Port sat on an island in the middle of Plum Beach’s lake, originally a bookstore styled like a chapel. Though modest, Chan knew the U.S. valued it more than all of SouthSea Transport, even the South Sea Fleet. Chan walked through his old battleground. Half-destroyed by wartime fires, the old commercial complex had never regained its former glory. Now, it was a residential hub for SouthSea Transport’s employees and a playground for sailors seeking fun ashore. Brothels, casinos, and bars lined the main strip, with prostitutes and touts starting their shifts early under neon lights. Chan was accustomed to it—human nature at work. The area was chaotic but kept in check by armed security patrols; no major trouble ever occurred. Compared to the lawless outer Shenzhen, it was practically a haven.

  The air inside the church was filled with the mingled scents of wax and briny sea. Joseph’s desk was cluttered with religious books and handwritten notes, while the neon glow from outside seeped through the windows, casting eerie, colorful patterns across the room. As a staunch Communist and self-professed atheist, Chan had never entered a religious site and found the place unsettling. After small talk with Joseph, Chan accepted a glass of water and sat stiffly.

  Chan got straight to the point. “Father Joe, your preaching’s got some flair, but Soul Ore is a technological issue, not a theological one. I run a business—consciousness, Soul Ore, whatever you call it; elevating it to a theological issue feels like a stretch. Are you familiar with the technical aspects of this?” Father Joe smiled. “Mr. Chan, technology without ethics is a disaster. Humans are God’s creation, granted a soul at conception. The soul is eternal compared to the frailty of the body and the limits of life. HuaCent’s Soul Ore technology copies consciousness, degrading the eternal soul to mere dust. Worse, they carve up that consciousness—keeping what’s useful to them, discarding the rest. That’s a profound violation of the soul.”

  Chan frowned and said, “Consciousness is just electrical signals from brain neurons—a natural phenomenon explained by science. If science can copy human consciousness, doesn’t it represent progress? Sure, technology needs ethical boundaries, but a copy of consciousness—isn’t it the same as the real person? If consciousness can persist beyond the body’s limits, doesn’t that resemble immortality? Isn’t that akin to your eternal soul?”

  Joseph shook his head. “Even if consciousness can be perfectly copied, a duplicate may mimic human thought but lacks the divine essence God grants. Such copies may serve as tools but lack human essence. John 17:3 says, ‘Now this is eternal life: that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.’ After death, the soul faces God’s judgment, entering heaven, purgatory, or hell; at the end, it reunites with a resurrected body for final judgment. Eternal life is communion with God, not something technology can achieve. Digital consciousness is a man-made thing, not God’s creation, especially not Soul Ore. HuaCent’s actions threaten not just laws but the very foundation of humanity.”

  Chan grinned. “Father, your theology might sway dock workers, but HuaCent’s tech runs on cold, hard cash. Ethics are admirable, but they don’t halt business.”

  Joseph’s gaze remained calm. “Mr. Chan, Shenzhen’s people are just finding their footing. The economy’s recovering, but the social foundation is fragile—one misstep and it could collapse overnight. The inland’s horrors, where people devour each other, could reach us in a flash. As shepherds, my first duty is to guide people to Christ, to teach them to discern good from evil. You guard Salt Port for the Fleet and Shenzhen, but ultimately, you’re protecting people, not machines. The danger of Soul Ore lies in its assault on the soul’s essence, harm not yet fully apparent. Copying consciousness is just the first step. With HuaCent’s technology, the next will be tampering with human brains—editing thoughts, erasing memories, and even implanting ideas. If this technological abuse continues, human society will lose all order, and Shenzhen may cease to be a home for humanity. What will be left to protect?”

  His words struck deep. A science grad himself, Chan had never thought about Soul Ore this way. His unease deepened. He handed Joseph his card. “Father Joe, thanks for the insight. I’ve got to go. If you need anything, just let me know.”

  Joseph handed him a small pamphlet and walked him to the door, murmuring, “Mr. Chan, may you find truth and peace. I’ll pray for you.”

  Chan didn’t look back. He slid into his car, lit a cigarette, and let the smoke curl around him. Staring at the StarLink tower, phantom pain surged through his body like an electric shock. Lin’s secret dealings, the South African assassination, Terminus’s threat—they wove a suffocating web. Soul Ore, Chest-Born, HuaCent—what conspiracy lay behind them?

  In the distance, a drone buzzed low, its body marked with a Chinese character, red lights piercing the night. Chan sneered, muttering, “Thunder, huh? Bring it on. Let’s see who crashes first.” He crushed the cigarette, climbed into the car, and the engine roared. Headlights sliced through the darkness as he drove toward an uncertain chessboard.