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38. Skyshield Armor

The newcomers worried whether there would be food for dinner. At the sound of the meal whistle, they immediately lined up to get their food. Three large tubs: one for rice, one for vegetables, one for meat. After staying here for a few days, they found this was always the routine. Unlike their university days or factory work, where the meat dish contained only a few pieces of meat—just enough to differentiate it from the vegetable dish—here, the meat dish was absolutely genuine, packed full with real meat.

Zhu Anfu looked at the long queue. Everyone’s spirits seemed a bit low today. Thinking of what Zhou Zhi had said, Zhu Anfu sighed inwardly, uncertain how many would remain after tonight’s dinner test. Zhou Zhi’s idea was that since everyone saw the problematic animals being delivered, the evening’s meat dish should contain less meat, just to observe the newcomers’ reactions. Yuchi Ankang agreed, suggesting that one day wouldn’t be enough to tell, but keeping it up for three to five days would reveal the truth.

As it turned out, after a week of lunch and dinner with scant meat in the meat dishes, not a single person left. The ones who remained weren’t all geniuses, but certainly none were fools. The soldiers and leaders ate the same meals, showing there were simply no conditions for everyone to eat more meat. The result of the test was that no one left, surprising some, though it made sense. After all, the outside environment couldn’t compare to this place.

With the project unfinished, Zhou Zhi didn’t let the new recruits idle. Soldiers led them in daily drills—running, military boxing—always finding something to keep them busy, lest they become spoiled. No one asked what they should do, nor did anyone complain about their professional backgrounds. Zhou Zhi made it clear: here, there was no distinction between degrees or status; everyone ate, used, and lived the same, with no special treatment. Don’t assume mental work is nobler than physical labor—without physical laborers, even the highest mental work here is meaningless.

Zhu Anfu and Yuchi Ankang participated in training as well. No exceptions, regardless of their work; good health was mandatory. Outside training, Zhou Zhi organized basketball games and other activities like tug-of-war.

“Yuchi, Anfu, I called you over to discuss the name for our armory. I want a striking name. The authorities’ suggestions—like ‘413’ or ‘769’—are just code names, which sounds like espionage,” Zhou Zhi said, disdainfully. Anfu, head down, fiddled with his phone. The signal was weak; he never tried calling out, but Jin She had given it a shot several times, with terrible results.

“What name do you want to give the factory, Brother Zhou?” Yuchi Ankang thought it necessary to mention communications. They needed to contact the outside world, but the poor signal was causing high radiation. “Before naming it, I’d like to discuss communications. Aside from landlines, maybe we should cut out mobile signals.” Yuchi explained the radiation issue and looked to Zhou Zhi for a decision.

“I’ll talk to Director Sun. Don’t your computers need the internet? Those youngsters are always saying they don’t know something and want to ask online.” Zhou Zhi fully agreed with Yuchi Ankang on scientific and practical matters.

“We only need an internal network. Until the country masters higher technology, we should consider our health, since we’re a secret organization,” Yuchi Ankang recalled those who traveled to the future. “Some of them studied communications in the future. I wonder if they’ll serve the country.” Though he disliked them, he hoped they’d contribute.

Yuchi Ankang worried too much. Those who returned from the future weren’t fools; they wouldn’t seek protection from the state. They wanted security and a good life, so their first thought was to cooperate with the government—even if it meant losing freedom and being used up. Those with advanced skills had their own offices and labs in Aerospace City, along with students. Though not as free as Yuchi Ankang, they enjoyed the privileges of technological experts. Some grew so accustomed to it that they became arrogant, thinking themselves extraordinary. In truth, they only knew a little more than the average fool.

After Director Sun took office, he restructured Aerospace City, nearly dismissing several returnees from the future. Had it not been for the knowledge in their minds, he wouldn’t have kept them. Still, he didn’t let those lazy, self-important types get too comfortable. If they produced no research or outstanding results within three months, Aerospace City wouldn’t keep dead weight. Those in the cave knew nothing of this.

“We need a powerful name, so anyone who leaves here can say, ‘I’m from XX,’ with pride, and others will immediately show respect,” Wang Fei suggested. “For example… Sky Dragon.”

“I prefer Sea Dragon!” Jin She shot Wang Fei a look. “Zhou Zhi, can you even name the factory? Will the authorities approve? We may be lords of the mountain, but all our supplies come from the state. Can we defy them on naming?”

Zhou Zhi hadn’t considered this point. What surprised everyone even more was the name chosen by the authorities: when the project was completed and officially operational, the factory was named—Skyshield Armor.

Skyshield Armor? Upon hearing the name, Yuchi Ankang and Zhu Anfu were stunned. They looked at Jin She, then at Zhou Zhi. Should they say something? This place would eventually become their domain. Why hadn’t they changed the name after gaining power? Yuchi Ankang and Zhu Anfu glanced at Zhou Zhi and Jin She, quietly turning away. No wonder the name remained; the two shared the same taste. Jin She and Zhou Zhi excitedly discussed getting a stone, carving the four characters, and embedding it in the cave.

“Does this count as sharing common ground?” Zhu Anfu nudged Yuchi Ankang.

“They’re a perfect match; it’s just that neither has acknowledged it,” Yuchi Ankang said, casting a sideways glance at Zhou Zhi, reminding him not to forget official business.

Clearing his throat, Zhou Zhi shook Director Sun’s hand, thanking him repeatedly. Old Sun patted Zhou Zhi’s hand, returned the grip, but his gaze was fixed on Yuchi. “Work hard!”

With the project finished, those who had been idle officially started their posts. Yuchi Ankang led Zhu Anfu down to the lowest level, first sterilizing, then entering the laboratory. The data they needed had nothing to do with the internet. Those who remained in the lab had all passed repeated exams by Yuchi Ankang and Zhu Anfu; those who failed either left or went to the factory.

The first lesson in the lab was not about mechas, but Zhou Zhi teaching the confidentiality code. Zhu Anfu sat straight, listening intently. After Zhou Zhi finished, Zhu Anfu leaned over to Yuchi Ankang and whispered, “We forgot to set up a medical room.”

Yuchi Ankang rubbed his head in silence. Clearly, he lacked leadership skills, missing such a major oversight. The medical room was essential, but the lab staff couldn’t be spared; someone from the factory would have to fill the role. Pushing the matter onto Zhou Zhi, Yuchi Ankang announced the start of his lecture. Yes, a lecture—for a group of young people who’d only seen mechas in novels, his task now was to guide them to understand mechas from the proper perspective.

Yuchi Ankang had been a teacher before, and now he was simply returning to his old profession. Zhu Anfu sat in the front row, taking meticulous notes. He wanted to stand by Yuchi Ankang’s side, but couldn’t stay using the title of Yuchi Ankang’s partner.

The mecha model stood in the lab, visible to everyone each day. They were all striving for the real thing.

~~~

“Can I do it? I may have studied it, but I’ve never taught before!” Yuchi Ankang wanted Zhu Anfu to lecture the researchers on the history of mechas. In fact, in future history, there was no record of Yuchi Ankang, Zhu Anfu, or any others traveling to the future. The records on mechas were vague, and when they were in the future, they never heard of anyone researching mecha history.

The two had once tried to find answers, but returned empty-handed. Even the reasons for abandoning the Mars colonization plan were disputed—some records said another nation launched intercept rockets; others claimed those sent to Mars couldn’t adapt and died; some novels said a war broke out, ending with Mars being unsuitable for human habitation. But what was the real reason? Zhu Anfu had asked, but even the teachers couldn’t explain.

“Besides, I can’t say the future records are simply what we researched!” Zhu Anfu felt this would be misleading. “I absolutely won’t do it—too many people, I’d stutter.”

“Forget it.” Yuchi Ankang was deeply disappointed. “I thought you’d help me. I’ve got too much to teach alone; I’m afraid I’ll fall before I finish.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help—it’s just I don’t know much, and I get nervous, I…” Zhu Anfu was anxious and regretful. Thinking back, it was always Yuchi Ankang thinking of him, and he had done too little to share the burden. Actually, Yuchi Ankang wanted him to co-teach so he’d know they stood on equal footing, not to create psychological pressure. “I—I’ll help you!” Zhu Anfu gritted his teeth. After all, it’s just teaching students—what’s there to fear!

Author’s note: Ahem, Shenyang’s weather is downright bizarre. In midwinter, temperatures have risen above zero, pouring rain, even thunder… I was so startled, I barely slept, worrying it might really… well, I won’t say more. In short, I’m anxious and uneasy!