Elliot Ackerman - 2034

By first light, Lin Bao was sandwiched between those two security men in the back of a black sedan as it wound up a long, twisting ribbon of driveway to its improbable location, the front entrance of the Mission Hills Golf Club and Resort in Shenzhen. To his surprise, when he stepped from the sedan, Lin Bao was met by a lithe twentysomething woman. She had an orchid pinned in her long black hair, wore a name tag that announced her title: hospitality associate . She handed Lin Bao a glass of cucumber-infused water. He sipped it, cautiously.

She escorted Lin Bao along the labyrinthine route to his junior suite, while the two security men disappeared amid the bland furniture of the echoing reception hall. When they arrived in his suite, the hospitality associate gave Lin Bao a quick tour, pointing out the mini-fridge and the sofa that pulled out into a second bed, then drawing back the curtains so he could appreciate the expansive green-lawned view overlooking the more than two hundred holes of golf at Mission Hills. Everything would be provided for Lin Bao, she explained, pulling out a drawer that contained a change of civilian clothes and gesturing to his fully stocked bathroom. She knew he had traveled a great distance, so it was now time to relax. If Lin Bao was hungry, he could order some lunch from room service. She would also send up the valet to clean and press his uniform, which wasn’t appropriate attire at a resort. The hospitality associate was polite and methodical in her speech, missing no detail, her chin raised slightly, the tense line of her throat expressing her words with a practiced efficiency that by the end of their exchange had Lin Bao wondering whether she was employed by the resort or by the same branch of internal security as the darkly suited men who’d brought him this far.

It hardly mattered, Lin Bao concluded as she left him alone.

But not really alone. Lin Bao sat on the edge of the bed, his left hand on his left knee, his right hand on his right knee, his back rigidly straight. He searched the room with his eyes. The air-conditioning vent most likely contained a listening device and pinhole-sized camera. The mirror that hung above the bed most likely contained the same. The hotel phone was certainly monitored. He walked to his window, which overlooked the golf course. He tried to open it—the window was sealed.

Lin Bao returned to the edge of the bed. He took off his boots and his fatigues and wrapped a towel around his waist. He crossed the suite and turned on the shower. A fresh tube of toothpaste was balanced on its cap by the sink. He touched the bristles of the hotel toothbrush; they were damp. Lin Bao brushed with his finger. Before he could step into the shower, a valet knocked on his door.

Did he have any dry cleaning?

Lin Bao gathered his uniform and handed it to the valet, who told him that his colleagues would be ready for him that afternoon. Who those colleagues were, Lin Bao didn’t know, and likely neither did the valet, who left with the bundle of clothes tucked beneath his arm. Lin Bao showered, ordered a light lunch for which he had little appetite, and dressed in the khakis and golf shirt that had been left for him. He sat in a chair by the window and looked out at the nearly vacant course, its acres and acres of grass rolling outward like an ocean.

For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder if he would ever gaze at the ocean again. Since being summoned here from the Zheng He , he’d disciplined himself against such thoughts, but his anxiety got the better of him as he waited in his room. He had heard of such “summonses” before. A national disaster had occurred in Zhanjiang, with millions killed, incinerated, while many others slowly perished in hospital beds around the country—in hospital beds not far from here. Someone would be held accountable. The Politburo Standing Committee would purge what it identified as the single point of failure. Which would always be a person.

Lin Bao suspected that he was perfectly positioned to be that person.

He continued staring at the golf course. What an improbable venue for it all to end.

Hours passed until there was a gentle knock on his door. It was the same pleasant young woman, the hospitality associate. “Were you able to get some rest, Admiral Lin Bao?” Before he could answer, she added, “Do the clothes fit all right?” Lin Bao glanced down at his khakis and shirt. He nodded, allowing himself to smile at the woman and restraining himself from thinking of his own wife and daughter, neither of whom he expected to see after today. Then the young woman said, “Your colleagues are ready for you now.”

15:25 July 06, 2034 (GMT-4)

Washington, D.C.

Home felt lonely and Chowdhury was trying to spend as little time there as possible. His mother and daughter had left Dulles International two days before, bound for New Delhi. Young as she was, Ashni would’ve asked few questions, but Chowdhury felt compelled to give the little girl an explanation as to where she was going and why—an explanation that approximated the truth. “You’re taking a trip to see where our family is from,” was what Chowdhury had settled on, even though his mother still struggled with the idea that her own brother could be considered family, let alone trusted.

The idea of trust was very much on Chowdhury’s mind as he considered what he had to do next, which was to inform his ex-wife, Samantha, that without her permission or foreknowledge he had flown their daughter across the world, to New Delhi, with an indefinite date of return. As he calculated what lay ahead, Chowdhury thought there existed a two-in-three chance of a strategic nuclear exchange with China. The idea that tactical nuclear exchanges wouldn’t escalate to strategic ones seemed wishful thinking at best. And so, he needed to get his daughter a long way from Washington. What Chowdhury understood—or had at least resigned himself to—was that no matter what his ex-wife said, no matter what custody court she dragged him into, no matter what international convention she evoked to have their daughter returned, he would fight and stall and writhe and obfuscate until he felt certain that it was safe for Ashni to come home. And if that day never arrived, then she would never return; he would simply alter his life accordingly.

But he didn’t need to deal with the rest of his life now; he only needed to inform Samantha of what he’d done and brace himself for her reaction. He sent her a text message, asking if they could meet for dinner. It was an odd request, to be sure; the two of them could hardly get on the phone without one hanging up on the other. However, Samantha replied immediately to the invitation—that is, Chowdhury could see the floating ellipses on the message thread, which meant that Samantha was typing, or typing and then deleting, which was likely the case because her reply after nearly a minute read only: Ok.

To which he replied: Name a place.

More ellipses before she answered: City Lights.

He nearly threw his phone across his empty apartment. The choice was so typical of her. Typical of her passive aggression. Typical of her moralizing. Typical of her need—since his one, fleeting infidelity, which led to their divorce—to belittle him whenever the opportunity presented itself. City Lights was a Chinese restaurant.

The next night he arrived for dinner at precisely seven o’clock. Samantha sat discreetly in the back, though the establishment was empty. The hostess led Chowdhury to a corner booth and pulled out the table, as if he might sit next to Samantha. Samantha didn’t stand to greet him, and Chowdhury didn’t sit in the booth; he pulled out the chair across from his ex-wife. The hostess handed Chowdhury his menu and left them alone. Chowdhury already knew what he wanted. He and Samantha used to come to City Lights weekly when they were first married and lived only a few blocks away near Dupont Circle, in a condo she had kept in the divorce settlement.