Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“If John speaks the truth then you must go to them.” Her tone rings resolute and cold. “Only they can keep you away from Khun.”

“Please…” He tugs feebly at her grip. “It doesn’t mean I have to shoot you…”

“I would’ve done it myself. You’ll be doing me a favour.”

“Oh God… Hannah, they could fix you. You might still live.”

“What use would they have for a wounded Tracker?” Hannah strains to raise her voice, now sounding a trifle vexed. “If I live Khun will have me kill you all over again. I know that.”

“I’ll speak to them, I’ll tell them everything—”

“It’s not going to happen, Arthur.” Hannah clasps tighter at his hand that holds the pistol. “No faction of CODEX would risk exposure. They’d do me in on the spot and if that had to happen—” She pauses and gathers herself. “I’d want you behind the trigger, Arthur.”

Aggrieved, Landon winces. “I’m Arthur no more and you know it.”

“To me you’re always Arthur. It lets me remember the swell times we had.” She lifts the pistol in her other hand, holds it sideways and jams its barrel into the spot below Landon’s chin. The move startles him. “Now,” her voice drops to a bellow. “You will deliver the shot or I will.”

Landon’s face contorts. Sorrow rushes in like boiling surf and dashes against his heart. Once more he tries to yank his pistol away from Hannah’s head, but against her Serum-charged strength his efforts amount to nothing.

“Go to them,” she says.

“Not without you.”

Hannah pushes the pistol farther up his chin. “I’m counting down, Arthur.”

He quivers, tears now rolling free. But his eyes remain hard and still.

“Three.” the apathy in Hannah’s voice rings chillingly.

“Hannah, please…”

“Two.”

“Oh, God… Hannah…”

“One.”

Landon shuts his eyes.

The report ranges to the heights of the viaduct above them. The wind abates, the rain thins. And in the wake of it all, a heavy, haunting stillness envelops.

That day—how could I forget?

Ning Yan, her dark hair in a chignon, glowed in a burgundy silk dress with tucks arranged in ascending tiers from the hem of her skirt. Fifteen-year-old Vivian sat beside her in the gharry and stuck out her head as they drove past groves of bandicoot berries and Chinese violets. The morning sunlight winked at her through the leafy canopy and the edges of her bonnet fluttered in the wind.

“How do you like the dress?” said Ning Yan.

Vivian’s cheeks dimpled. “It’s hot and tight at the waist.”

“That’s how European dresses are. I thought you might want to try them on at least once for the garden party, before we return them to Mrs Watkins.”

The gharry wound along a roadway of dirt, amid luxuriant foliage and treetop canopies. They came upon a small river; its waters flowing so slowly they looked like they were stagnant. Masses of dhobies speckled its banks, beating out carpets and dashing their laundry against corrugated wooden boards. Those who had finished threaded up the slopes with full baskets over their heads.

The gharry swerved to avoid a small herd of goats before turning onto Orchard Road—an avenue of tall bamboo hedges that fronted plantations of nutmeg, pepper and gambier. Rumps of vegetation rose on either side as the gharry drove past a large Chinese cemetery and towards the district of Tanglin. On a hillock sat a bungalow. The gharry rumbled up an incline, negotiated a bend of gravel and came to a stop before a large, white portico where two empty hackney carriages and their Kling peons, having deposited their passengers, were just departing.

Vivian lugged the copious fabric of her skirt carefully down the steps as her Mama paid the wallah. A turbaned Sikh dressed in a tunic and white gloves conducted them, with courtly decorum, towards a magnificent garden bathed in the bitter fragrance of nutmeg and mangosteen.

The garden was styled in the English fashion: manicured hedges, palms, wild almonds, fruit trees wreathed in flowering shrubs and creepers, heliotropes in all kinds of vivid colours and plaster Doric columns tipped with bowls of rare orchids. There was even a pond with duckweed and giant specimens of Victoria regias .

Ning Yan made her way across the lawn in brisk, elegant strides, her porcelain skin and her beauty at once commanding the attention of many European men who sat in chairs drinking port in their tutups and sunhats. The ladies preferred to roam the lawns in their Edwardian wardrobe and silk parasols, and Ning Yan headed for them. Vivian kept alongside her Mama, capering at the thrill of the occasion.

Along the terraces that skirted the bungalow, guests lunched on rice and curried fish in the breeze of punkah fans pulled by dark-skinned peons. Here and there maidservants in white tops and black silk trousers hustled, ferrying dishes and pouring wine. An eight-member brass band sweltered in a Victorian gazebo and played See-Saw Waltz .

It was a Saturday—the perfect excuse to hold a business luncheon instead of having to work till noon. The Europeans on this island generally profited from lives of excess, many of whom needing to work no more than five hours a day. Tennis, cricket, tea dances and garden parties occupied the rest of their time.

Ning Yan arrived at the luncheon table and presented herself to a group of ladies. The spread of delicacies did not interest her at all. Vivian, on the other hand, was already goggling at the food. A lady in a lavender summer dress strutted up to them.

“You must be from the Society,” she said.

Being well-versed in the European etiquette, Ning Yan performed a commendable curtsy and displayed the propriety required of the occasion with remarkable aplomb. “It is such honour, Mrs Langfield. The Straits Welfare Society sends its regards and gratitude for your generous contribution.” She took the lady’s hand daintily and their fingers touched. “I am Lucy, the Society’s administrator.”

Mrs Langfield tucked in her chin. “You speak very good English.”

“And also Latin, to the credit of Jesuit missionaries,” said Ning Yan. She nudged Vivian and got her to perform a curtsy.

“Your daughter, I presume?” said Mrs Langfield.

“Foster daughter,” said Ning Yan. “As you are aware, we run an orphanage.”

“Of course,” Mrs Langfield smiled in passing and did a quick examination of Vivian in her dress. “She looks almost a lady.”

Almost? Ning Yan curtsied graciously nonetheless. “Forgive me for taking the liberty of bringing her along. Today is her fifteenth birthday and she has never been to a luncheon of such status.”

“Oh, Lucy.” Mrs Langfield touched Ning Yan on her elbow. “You should’ve told me!” She turned to Vivian. “Come then! No need to be bashful. Fill your plate with the finest.”

Vivian sought out her Mama’s approval with an abashed, dimpled grin and, when she had obtained it, proceeded forth. As Vivian dissected the spread, a tall, grey-haired man sporting a bristly moustache and a sunhat came over to Mrs Langfield. Behind him trailed four younger gentlemen.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” said he to Ning Yan.

Mrs Langfield introduced them. “Lucy, meet Robert Langfield, my husband and Chairman of the company.”

“An honour, Mr Langfield.” Ning Yan curtsied and offered her hand for a kiss that lingered a little too long for comfort.

Langfield surveyed Ning Yan from top to toe with a sweep of his eyes. “What a splendid vagary of life.”

Ning Yan smiled thinly in response, uncertain of what to make of the remark.