Tales of the End of the Century

Bai Ye stood in front of the row of enamel mugs, the beam of his headlamp slowly sweeping across from left to right.

Dozens. Not seven, not a dozen. Dozens, neatly arranged on the cracked canvas, each one spotless, the bottoms free of tea stains, the enamel glaze gleaming with a warm, matte sheen under the headlamp. Some had small pieces of porcelain chipped off the rim, revealing the grayish-black iron beneath; some had their handles re-bound, neatly secured with thin wire. Each one was different, each one had been used for a long time.

Tie Niu stood beside him, the beam of his headlamp sweeping from left to right. He counted twice, silently, his lips moving. He stopped when he reached the last one, turning to look at Bai Ye. "About the same number of people transferred that Lan Susu checked on the test subject list before we left Yushugou. Not one more, not one less."

Lan Susu crouched at the edge of the canvas, pulling Sergei's list of test subjects from the waterproof bag. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the fibers at the folds almost broken. She gently laid it on her knees with her fingertips, her headlamp illuminating the rightmost column of the list—the column where Sergei had marked "destination" in pencil. Most of them were marked "transferred," a few "pending confirmation," and a few were followed by question marks. She compared them one by one: the number, arrangement, and spacing of the jars in each row on the canvas matched the number of test subjects marked "transferred" on the list. She folded the list back and put it back in the waterproof bag, her gaze falling on the piece of chalk next to the jars in the front row and the tattered piece of the list. "They weren't separated after being sent away; they were brought in in batches. The jars were their only personal belongings, their only markers."

Bai Ye squatted down and picked up the leftmost mug in the front row. There were no tea stains on the bottom, but a very thin layer of white chalk dust. He held the mug up to his headlamp and slowly turned it around. On the inner wall of the bottom, he saw a line of words—written in chalk, repeatedly written over and over again, each time on top of the previous one, the writing overlapping into a blurry white mass. He didn't try to decipher what the topmost writing was; he already knew what it was. The same word Sergei had written on the last page of the backup library. The same word Old Wei had carved on the iron gate frame with his fingernail. The same blurry writing on the bottom of Old Hu's enamel mug, the mug that the man surnamed Ji from the supply and marketing cooperative had flipped over and over under the bench—the same word he had silently repeated countless times in his mind.

He put the jar back in its place and picked up the second one. The second jar also had writing on its bottom, the same word. The third, the fourth, the fifth. All the jars he could reach had the same word written on their bottoms in chalk, the writing repeatedly traced over, each time on top of the previous one, forming a blurry white mess.

But upon closer inspection, the handwriting was still different. It wasn't that the font was different—they were all the same character, with completely identical strokes and structures; it was that the pressure applied was different. Some strokes were applied very heavily, the chalk dust embedding into the micropores of the enamel, impossible to remove even with a thumb; some were applied very lightly, so light that only the outline could be seen when the headlamp was held at an angle; some began hesitantly, the first horizontal stroke crooked and twisted, as if unsure whether they could still write; some ended decisively, the last vertical stroke drawn out very long, as if they had finished writing this stroke, stood up, pushed open the door, and walked out.

Tie Niu squatted down beside him, looking at the varying shades of ink. "How long will this take to write?"

Lan Susu put the list back into the waterproof bag and stood up. "It's not that it's been written for a long time, it's that everyone is writing—everyone who was brought in is writing the same word at the bottom of their own tank every day. They keep writing until their own rift period ends, until their reflections start writing along with them."

Bai Ye put the jar back in its place, stood up, and walked forward. The jars on the canvas were neatly laid out in rows, and he walked deeper into the space between them. The arrangement of the jars changed—the first few rows were widely spaced, each jar an arm's length apart, as if the owner was still nearby when they were first placed, ready to return and write again at any moment; the middle rows narrowed, the jars closer together, some handle to handle, the owner no longer having the strength to move them to the widest possible position; the last few rows suddenly widened again—wider than the first row, so wide it exuded a great sense of composure. This final widening didn't indicate a return of strength, but rather that the owner no longer needed the jars to confirm his identity, to place them properly, straighten them, write the last word, and then stand up and walk away.

Bai Ye stopped at the end of the canvas. Before him lay the other end of the cavern, a double-leaf sealed door embedded in the rock wall. This door was smaller than the one at the entrance; there were no cuts or rusted rivets on the door panel, and the anti-rust paint was intact, but a very faint light shone through the cracks. It was a warm yellow, and very stable.

He suddenly understood how those who had been transferred had disappeared. They weren't sent away, they weren't lost. They were brought into this mining area in batches, completed the final stage of the fissure phase in this cavern, and then pushed open this door and went further inside. They left the jars behind. The jars were the only marker. After all the jars were placed, the person guarding this cavern also put down his chalk, pushed open the door, and continued towards the next hidden door deeper inside.

Tie Niu walked over to him, gently pressed the piece of chalk back onto the tattered list, and nodded slightly at the jars on the canvas. "This room is even bigger than Lao Wei's. Lao Wei's door was for the people outside; this one is for himself inside."

Lan Susu bent low and squeezed through the cut under the pried-open sealed door, taking the oscilloscope out of her backpack and turning it on. The pulsating signal they had been tracking was still on the screen, closer than before, so close that she could feel it even through the intact sealed door—not coming from the crack in the door, but through the entire steel plate. The frequency of consciousness was attenuated by the metal medium, but it was still as stable as a finger tapping a very slow, very steady beat. She pointed the antenna towards the crack in the door, and the waveform rose and fell against the dark green background. "The signal source is outside the door. Very close. Less than twenty meters."

Bai Ye withdrew his hand from the door panel and looked down at the rows of enamel mugs at his feet. He felt something was gathering in this cavern—not a signal, not a rift, but a person. One by one, they were being brought in, one by one they were being helped through the rift's duration, one by one they were being sent deeper into the cavern. They were collecting abandoned relics, piecing together a clue that had completely vanished from official records.

He pulled his enamel mug from the side pocket of his backpack and placed it at the very edge of the canvas; there were no words on the bottom. It wasn't time to write yet. Then he turned around and looked at the mugs behind him, their owner—the one who led Old Wei into the first cave, the one who tied reflective ropes to the iron fence at the mine entrance, the one who cut the passage in the sealed door with an oxyacetylene torch—he was deeper inside. In the darkness closest to them, very close, waiting for them.