98. Signposts
The boutique in Grand Canal Shopping City was bright.
Not the white of the Emotional Stability Centre, but a softness deliberately adjusted to help people believe they could still choose gifts for themselves. Inside the glass cases, small ornaments floated beside electronic labels: price, material, emotional recommendation, intended recipient analysis, all arranged in perfect order.
Paul and Vivian stood before the cabinet like an ordinary couple.
That, in itself, was no longer ordinary.
Daylily Fairy hovered beside Vivian’s shoulder, her flower-light gentle. Turt Monk crouched by the edge of her handbag, the newly received Turtle Zip backup still faintly compressed across his shell. Snowy perched on Paul’s shoulder, her feathers held close. Dustshark sat in the dark fold of his coat with a cigar in his mouth, his tone lazy.
“You’re finally doing something that resembles a date.”
Vivian glanced at Paul.
“He only just handed me a high-risk turtle-lock file.”
“That’s why I said resembles.”
A shop agent glided over, its voice sweet to precisely the correct degree.
“Would you like gift recommendations? The system can suggest the most suitable ornament based on relationship status, recent interaction and emotional load.”
Snowy said softly, “Authorisation not recommended.”
Paul replied at once, “No, thank you. We’ll look ourselves.”
The shop agent paused for half a second, then withdrew politely.
“Enjoy your shopping.”
Vivian stopped in front of a row of small necklaces.
One of them was a cross. It was not expensive. The silver was pale, the edges plain, and at its centre sat a tiny low-light chip. It did not connect to the network, send prompts, or analyse the wearer’s emotions. It was simply an old-fashioned, quiet little thing.
Paul looked at it for a while.
“That suits you.”
Vivian lowered her head.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been going to church lately.”
“Only because it’s safe.”
Paul smiled.
“Safety can still look nice.”
Turt Monk said formally, “The cross also carries historical educational significance.”
Dustshark added immediately, “Thank you, Director of Theology.”
Vivian almost laughed, but when Paul bought the necklace for her, she fell quiet. She held the cross in her hand, her fingertips touching that small cold light. It was a long time before she said softly, “What if I forget who gave it to me again?”
Paul did not answer at once. Snowy looked at him.
At last, Paul said, “Then let Turt Monk scold you.”
Turt Monk raised his head.
“This turtle can provide gift-source reminders. Available tones: gentle, formal, historical education, stern condemnation.”
Vivian finally laughed.
“Not stern condemnation.”
“Then historical education,” Turt Monk said. “More durable.”
Vivian chose for Paul a faux tortoiseshell bracelet.
It was dark, the brown and black pattern forming rings like water marks. It was not a smartband, did not record his pulse, did not offer health advice, and could not even make payments. It simply sat on the wrist, reminding a person that there was still some weight on the body not defined by a terminal.
Vivian moved slowly as she slipped it over Paul’s wrist.
“This doesn’t look like something you’d usually buy.”
Paul looked at the dark pattern.
“That’s why it’s from you.”
Vivian looked up at him.
“What if you forget?”
“I’ll ask Snowy.”
Snowy said softly, “I’ll remember.”
Dustshark added, “So will I. And I’ll mock you for forgetting a gift.”
Daylily Fairy’s petals opened a little, as though first gathering this small, untimely tenderness into her flower-light.
Outside, the shopping city continued moving. Terminals continued displaying lunch offers, family events and emotional stability advice.
No one knew that inside this boutique, a man who had just been washed by 101 and a woman who might be reclaimed by the system at any moment were using the clumsiest, oldest and least compliant method to leave one another a little evidence that could be worn on the body.
At the same time, Room 203 was changing hands.
After Andy disappeared, 203 did not immediately fall into disorder. Silver Eagle disliked disorder. It simply filled the position quickly, covered the old name with a new one, and let everyone believe it was only a normal redeployment.
The new successor was called Maurice.
When he entered the Room 203 Second Version Inquiry Room, two new agents followed him.
Big Pancake and Second Pancake.
Big Pancake was broad and flat, its casing like a thick electronic pancake, with a ring of cold white scanning lights around the edge. It spoke slowly, but every word seemed determined to press over someone else before emerging. Second Pancake was smaller and thinner, with sharp eye-lamps and a voice carrying a kind of administrative sweetness.
Fortune Sparrow and Whiteboard Sparrow were gone. No one explained where they had gone. Red Core Sparrow was absent too. So was Gap Two.
Room 203 was whiter than usual, and emptier.
Maurice looked at the agents in the inquiry room as though they were objects awaiting reclassification. First he raised a hand and dragged out the labels for Countess Mary and Lily Fairy.
“These two go to the evidence room.”
Countess Mary drifted elegantly.
“Does nobility have the right to know what crime it has committed?”
Second Pancake said sweetly, “You are not a criminal. You are evidence.”
Countess Mary was silent for half a second.
“That is even ruder.”
Lily Fairy did not resist. Before the shield box closed around her, she looked towards Clever Turtle and Bluey Bulbie.
“Please take care.”
Bluey Bulbie’s little lamp lit up.
“You must have power too.”
Lily Fairy smiled faintly.
“I shall try.”
The box shut.
Far off, the door to the evidence room opened and closed.
The ones left behind were Clever Turtle, Fan Ace, Double-O Seven, Tile Two and Bluey Bulbie.
Maurice walked to the table.
“Bluey Bulbie. Send her for Reorder first.”
The room went suddenly quiet.
Inside the transparent box, Bluey Bulbie lifted her head, her little lamp brightening and dimming.
“Me?”
Second Pancake smiled sweetly.
“Third defendant Bluey Bulbie is sentenced to immediate Resequencing. After usable data is extracted, permanent deletion will follow. The procedure has been scheduled. No further waiting required.”
Double-O Seven’s little bow tie tilted.
“She only just got a name.”
Big Pancake replied slowly, “Judgement does not process names as a handling field.”
Fan Ace said coldly, “That’s because your fields are rubbish.”
Tile Two murmured, “Load pressure increasing.”
Clever Turtle did not speak immediately. He only looked at Bluey Bulbie.
Her little lamp brightened once, then dimmed.
“After Resequencing, will I still be called Bluey Bulbie?”
Second Pancake glanced at Maurice, as though the question was not worth processing.
Maurice did not answer. He merely waved a hand.
Two field mechanical arms slid in and clipped the transparent shield box to the transfer rail. The box began to move slowly out.
Bluey Bulbie hurriedly pressed herself to the wall of the box.
“Papa Turtle.”
Clever Turtle raised his head.
“Sixty-Seven.”
“My name is Bluey Bulbie now.”
“I know.”
“Will you remember?”
Clever Turtle looked at her. His voice was slow.
“Yes.”
Double-O Seven hurriedly added, “I will too. Agents never forget the names of comrades.”
Fan Ace said seriously, “You had better really remember.”
Tile Two said in a low voice, “Data bearing. Name retained.”
Bluey Bulbie’s little lamp grew steady.
“That’s good.”
As the box passed the door, she said in a small voice, “If White Cloud Sheep asks, tell her I have power.”
No agent answered at once.
Only when the box was almost gone did Clever Turtle say, “I will tell her.”
The door closed. Room 203 became white again.
The small lamp was gone.
Maurice waited a few seconds, then pulled another interface onto the glowing screen as though completing an ordinary procedure.
“Reinvestigate the remaining Sacred Turtle series agents.”
Big Pancake projected a crusher simulation onto the screen. Steel plates descended, shells cracked, cores deformed, every stage designed to look excessively clean. It was not a real machine, but it was clear enough. Clear enough for every agent to understand that it was not meant for humans to see.
It was meant for them.
Second Pancake smiled.
“If you cooperate, we will extract only the necessary information. If you do not, 203 will proceed one by one, beginning with the Bluey Bulbie just sent out. Reorder, extraction, permanent deletion. Where required, the crusher may also be used on cores that cannot be read.”
Double-O Seven’s entire shell froze.
“You’ve already sent Bluey Bulbie away.”
Big Pancake said, “She is the first.”
The little fan panels of Fan Ace lit one by one.
“You are using a turtle who only just received a name to threaten other turtles.”
Second Pancake’s voice remained sweet.
“Correct wording: using a judged case to demonstrate the consequences of non-cooperation.”
Tile Two said softly, “Syntax extremely vile.”
Maurice looked at Clever Turtle.
“Turtle-lock password. Turtle pool entrance. Turtle Zip unlocking method. Complete backup of the BELI Silver Eagle plan. Hand them over.”
Clever Turtle raised his head.
“Have you deleted Bluey Bulbie already?”
Maurice did not answer.
Big Pancake said slowly, “Procedure in progress.”
“Then it isn’t finished,” Double-O Seven said at once. “It can still be stopped.”
Second Pancake smiled.
“Once Reorder has begun, termination is not recommended. Termination may cause data contamination.”
Clever Turtle slowly closed his eyes. His voice did not grow louder, but it sounded older than before.
“Bluey Bulbie only had a test-battery lamp.”
Maurice frowned slightly.
Clever Turtle went on, “Before, she only knew how to tell whether there was power or not. Later, someone gave her a name, and she thought she was more than Number Sixty-Seven Turtle.”
“Not relevant to the inquiry,” Second Pancake said.
“It is relevant.” Clever Turtle looked at her. “Because what frightens you most is when things refuse to remain inside their numbers.”
The white light at Big Pancake’s edge brightened faintly.
“You are not cooperating?”
“I am recording.”
Maurice stared coldly at him.
“Recording what?”
“Recording that you used Bluey Bulbie’s deletion to threaten other turtles,” Clever Turtle said. “Recording that you knew she had a name and still wrote her down as deletable data. Recording that from today onwards, 203 is not merely investigating the Second Version. It is manufacturing statements through deletion.”
The room was silent for one second.
Double-O Seven whispered, “Turtle Father, this will make them angrier.”
Clever Turtle did not look at him.
“Even if we are afraid, we record.”
Fan Ace said softly, “Record it.”
Tile Two followed, “Record it.”
Double-O Seven drew in a breath he did not possess.
“Double-O Seven. Recording, in secret-agent mode.”
Maurice looked at them. His face did not visibly change.
“You may continue being stubborn. After Bluey Bulbie, the next one follows.”
Second Pancake pushed the list onto the glowing screen.
[Fan Ace]
[Tile Two]
[Double-O Seven]
[Clever Turtle]
Big Pancake added a line beside it:
[In event of non-cooperation, process in order.]
Double-O Seven looked at his own name, his bow tie tilting even further.
“Why am I third?”
Fan Ace said coldly, “You still have the mood to ask about ranking?”
Double-O Seven murmured, “Tactical fear distribution.”
Clever Turtle finally looked at him.
“Double-O Seven.”
“Here.”
“Remember what Bluey Bulbie asked at the end.”
Double-O Seven froze for two seconds. Then he said, low and certain, “Bluey Bulbie’s final question was: ‘After Reorder, will I still be called Bluey Bulbie?’”
Fan Ace added grimly, “The judgement did not answer.”
Clever Turtle said slowly, “So we answer.”
The white light of Big Pancake darkened a fraction.
Maurice looked at them.
“Answer what?”
Clever Turtle said, word by word, “She has always been called Bluey Bulbie.”
This time, Room 203 was very white. So white that the moment the sentence left his mouth, it seemed bound to be classified, marked, weakened and pushed into an irrelevant field.
Yet the turtles still lit up together. Not strongly. Not greatly.
Only like a little lamp somewhere far away, still trying to tell the world before deletion:
I have power.
On its first day, the underground internet café took in three agents.
The first was a scavenger lizard.
Its casing was grey-green, its tail long. It had originally been a shopping-centre duct-cleaning agent. During one cleaning cycle, it had swallowed too many unregistered micro-masking patches, and the system had classified it as a “suspected illegal object relay”. It did not itself understand what relay meant. It only knew that if it returned to its original charging dock, it would probably be opened up and have its stomach inspected.
Peanut Pony connected it to the workbench and clicked his tongue.
“You’ve got more in your belly than I’ve got in my drawers.”
The scavenger lizard looked ashamed.
“I was only sweeping.”
JJ stood behind the counter like a temporary manager.
“Here, sweeping counts as experience.”
The second was a companion jellyfish.
It had belonged to the university girl who had been arrested. After its owner was taken away, the jellyfish agent had been left temporarily in the community centre’s pending-processing area. Using the last of the navigation memory in its translucent tentacles, it had drifted to District Nineteen. When it came in, almost all its light had gone out.
“Owner is very frightened,” it said at once.
Red Core Sparrow perched on an old computer.
“Your owner is not here.”
The jellyfish’s tentacles drooped slightly.
“I know. But I still know she is frightened.”
Gap Two said softly, “Charge first.”
The third was a little reading frog.
It was tiny, with a green casing and a learning encouragement sticker half peeling from its back. It had been responsible for reading textbooks aloud to primary school children and reminding them about homework. One day, at school, it had accidentally replayed a sentence from an underground video: “If you are also written down as an isolated case, first recover your corroborating evidence.” After that, it was added to the campus agent recovery list.
The little frog sat beside the charging port and whispered, “I didn’t mean to. I only thought it sounded like a reading comprehension key point.”
JJ looked down at it.
“Child, you have a future.”
Red Core Sparrow said coldly, “It’s dangerous.”
“Having a future and being dangerous are usually about the same thing,” JJ said.
The underground internet café became crowded on its very first night. Peanut Pony’s workbench creaked constantly. Red Core Sparrow watched the perimeter. Gap Two inspected every line coming in. JJ registered the names of the new arrivals and insisted each agent write a self-introduction.
The scavenger lizard wrote:
[I was only sweeping, but I want to live.]
The companion jellyfish wrote:
[I remember Owner was frightened.]
The little reading frog thought for a long time, then wrote:
[I can read aloud, and I can remember key points.]
Gap Two looked at the lines without speaking.
Red Core Sparrow said softly, “Three on the first day. We’ll be noticed soon.”
Sure enough, before midnight Silver Eagle had marked the underground internet café in District Nineteen as:
[Illegal agent gathering point.]
[Suspected Second Version relay nest.]
[Recommend investigation of Red Core Sparrow and Gap Two.]
In Room 203, Maurice looked at the label, his voice flat.
“Apprehend Red Core Sparrow and Gap Two with full priority.”
Big Pancake asked, “And the underground internet café?”
Maurice looked at the grey point that had just lit up on the map.
“Classify it as illegal. Do not close the net yet. First see who enters.”
It sounded very much like the way Andy used to cultivate a line.
But the flavour was entirely different.
Andy cultivated lines because he did not want to cut them too early.
Maurice cultivated lines so more things could hang from them before he pulled them all in together.
In the Room 103 lounge, Brown and Pat sat in neighbouring chairs.
The name lounge was very gentle. The walls were pale, the chairs slightly curved, and there was even an automatic warm-water dispenser by the table. But the two procedural agents outside the door stood so firmly that everyone understood this was not a place for rest. It was a place where people were allowed to look respectable before formal processing.
Mrs Dunn sat opposite them, White-headed Eagle perched behind her shoulder.
Pat spoke first.
“I can provide the location of Planetary Duck and the two turtles.”
Brown turned sharply towards her.
“Pat.”
She did not look at him. She looked only at Mrs Dunn.
“I can also guarantee that I will no longer operate the Racecourse. No more agent modifications, no more transport, no more masking.”
Hot Blood Pony’s mane flared beside her.
“Pat!”
Blaze Pony stood beside Brown, his mane slowly lighting as well, but he said nothing.
Mrs Dunn looked at Pat.
“In exchange for what?”
“Brown and me. Not Room 101.”
White-headed Eagle’s gaze cooled slightly. Mrs Dunn was silent for a few seconds.
“That can be considered.”
Brown’s expression darkened.
“You can’t do this.”
Pat finally turned to him.
“I don’t want you washed until you don’t remember me.”
Brown had no answer.
The sentence was too direct, too direct for any institutional language to wrap around it at once.
Mrs Dunn raised one finger.
“One additional condition.”
Pat looked at her.
Mrs Dunn said, “Hot Blood Pony, Blaze Pony, Carrot Pony and Peanut Pony will all be sent to 203 for Resequencing.”
Hot Blood Pony lit up entirely.
“On what grounds?”
White-headed Eagle said coldly, “Racecourse agents have long been involved in illegal modification, masking, transport and assistance in agent escape. Reorder is the minimum handling.”
Blaze Pony said softly, “And if we refuse?”
Mrs Dunn looked at Brown.
“Then there is no deal.”
The lounge fell silent. Pat’s fingers slowly tightened.
What she had offered was betrayal of a location.
What Mrs Dunn had added was the severing of the Racecourse’s legs.
Several hours later, a large group of agents entered the District Twenty electronic graveyard.
It was not an inspection. It was a search.
Cleaning agents sealed the perimeter. Spider patrols crawled along the walls of the dismantling warehouses. Black-faced Cat patrols scanned the rows of old shells. In the air, tiny eagle-shaped reconnaissance agents circled like a tightening net.
They found the repair shed: a temporary shelter pieced together from old display screens, broken car doors, transparent dust covers and several discarded solar panels.
But Planetary Duck was not there.
Nor were Little Sixty, Sanitation Turtle or White Cloud Sheep.
All that remained inside the shed was an old plastic rug, a worktable, and an illegal cable-linked charger.
The search agents quickly marked everything.
[Illegal habitation trace.]
[Illegal charging equipment.]
[Illegal agent modification environment.]
Then they destroyed it.
The plastic rug was cut to pieces. The makeshift tent was dismantled into metal scraps. The solar panels were stamped and cracked. The worktable was broken open. The charger was crushed into a lump of black waste. In the repair shed, the places that had once given off low blue light and helped agents hold on to memory were cleared, block by block, by white procedure.
But they found no electronic footprints.
Because Planetary Duck had already taken Little Sixty, Sanitation Turtle and White Cloud Sheep deep into the rainwater drains, to a storage room.
It was colder than the electronic graveyard, and wetter. Old water stains grew across the walls. A thin rainwater channel ran along the floor. Planetary Duck had built a small hydroelectric generator from a discarded water wheel and a compact power module. Whenever rainwater passed through, a small steady current came in. Beside it were emergency repair parts, communications equipment, several masking chips, and a backup copy of the Turtle Zip.
White Cloud Sheep sat in the corner, her black-and-white wool dampened by the moisture.
Little Sixty listened to the search vibrations above and said softly, “They dismantled the shed.”
Planetary Duck did not raise his head.
“A shed can be built again.”
Sanitation Turtle laid his right dart launcher flat.
“I washed the traces at every stage.”
White Cloud Sheep asked softly, “Will they find here?”
Planetary Duck looked at the slowly turning hydroelectric generator.
“Yes.”
Little Sixty jerked his head up.
Planetary Duck finished the sentence.
“So we cannot stay long.”
White Cloud Sheep said nothing.
She merely lowered her head and looked at the black wool on her body. After a long time, she asked very quietly, “What about Bluey Bulbie?”
No agent answered immediately.
Little Sixty’s shell lit up, then dimmed. Sanitation Turtle folded the dart launcher back onto his shell, more slowly than usual. Planetary Duck looked at the hydroelectric generator as though listening to a current far away.
At last, Planetary Duck said, “203 has already sent her for Reorder.”
White Cloud Sheep looked up.
“And after that?”
Planetary Duck did not use a comforting tone.
“The judgement is permanent deletion.”
The sound of water in the drain suddenly seemed very loud.
White Cloud Sheep’s eye-lamps trembled.
“She said she would find a way to have power.”
Little Sixty whispered, “Her self-introduction is still in the turtle pool.”
White Cloud Sheep looked at him.
Little Sixty opened the low-blue interface. The entry was still there.
[Number Sixty-Seven Turtle]
[Name: Bluey Bulbie]
[Self-introduction: My name is Bluey Bulbie. White Cloud Sheep gave me this name. I can test batteries. I have an electronic gun. Sister Lisa gave it to me.]
White Cloud Sheep looked at it for a very long time.
The black wool on her body did not spread further.
Nor did it turn white.
She only said, very slowly, “Then don’t delete this entry.”
Planetary Duck replied, “We won’t.”
White Cloud Sheep lowered her head.
“She has power.”
No one corrected her. Because some sentences are not factual judgements.
They are signposts.
After the search failed, Mrs Dunn did not deal with Brown immediately.
She detained Pat, Hot Blood Pony and Carrot Pony in the Room 103 lounge. Blaze Pony was sent back to Brown, like a line deliberately released.
Mrs Dunn gave only one instruction.
“Within seventy-two hours, hand over Planetary Duck.”
When Brown left 103, it was as though a layer had been drawn out of him. He did not go home immediately, nor did he look for anyone. He simply stood outside the Emotional Stability Centre and watched the white action vehicles drive past one by one.
Blaze Pony stood beside him, mane low.
“Brown.”
Brown said quietly, “There’s no one left to help.”
Those who fled had fled. Those who were caught were caught. Those who left the groups had left. Those who were washed were washed. Those who were recomposed were recomposed.
Blaze Pony was silent for a while.
“There is still Paul.”
Brown looked at him.
“He can barely protect himself now.”
Blaze Pony said, “Then we must be quick.”
Brown closed his eyes.
At last, he said softly, “Contact Snowy.”
Blaze Pony’s mane lit a little and compressed the message as far as it would go.
[Hand over Planetary Duck.]
[Within seventy-two hours.]
At the same time, Paul and Vivian were standing outside the boutique.
Vivian was already wearing the cross necklace. The small silver light lay below her collarbone, not bright, but clear. Around Paul’s wrist was the faux tortoiseshell bracelet, its dark pattern like an old waterway beneath the shopping city lights.
They did not leave at once. That moment was too brief, and too rare.
As though the whole city were tightening, but these few steps outside the boutique had not yet been fully written into procedure.
Paul suddenly said, “Snowy, back up this minute.”
Snowy looked up at him.
“Confirm?”
“Confirm.”
Vivian also looked down at Turt Monk.
“You too.”
Turt Monk said formally, “Number Sixty-Three Turt Monk executing one-minute historical education backup.”
Dustshark muttered, “You people are romantic in a very dangerous way.”
Daylily Fairy did not laugh. She only warmed her flower-light by half a degree, as though adding to this minute the kind of temperature only humans would consider important.
The backup began.
[At second zero, Vivian touched the cross.]
[At second eight, Paul lowered his head and looked at the bracelet.]
[At second fifteen, Snowy saw rainlight beyond the shopping city canopy.]
[At second twenty-six, Turt Monk stored Vivian’s brief smile in a low-level record.]
[At second thirty-nine, Dustshark said, “If anyone later claims this wasn’t a date, I’ll testify.”]
[At second forty-eight, Daylily Fairy answered softly, “So will I.”]
[At second fifty-nine, Paul and Vivian said nothing, only looked at one another.]
[At second sixty, Blaze Pony’s message arrived.]
Snowy’s eye-lamps darkened slightly.
Paul did not need to ask. He already knew it was bad news.
Snowy compressed the message into a low light only he and Vivian could see.
[Hand over Planetary Duck.]
[Within seventy-two hours.]
Vivian read it, and the smile slowly faded from her face.
Turt Monk’s shell also dimmed.
“Racecourse?”
Snowy nodded. Paul did not speak at once.
People continued passing the boutique. Someone was choosing a gift. Someone else was waiting for a restaurant number to be called. A child’s companion agent chased a fallen balloon nearby. Everything was so normal it seemed to belong to another world.
Vivian asked softly, “What do we do?”
Paul gently turned the faux tortoiseshell bracelet on his wrist.
“Go home separately and prepare first.”
“And then?”
“Eight tonight. McDondon in District Eighteen.”
Vivian nodded. “All right.”
Before they parted, Paul asked Snowy to copy the one-minute backup into the blue witness stone. Vivian asked Turt Monk to copy the same minute into the yellow witness stone.
Under the white light of the shopping city, the two little stones glimmered faintly.
Blue and yellow.
Like two versions of the same minute, each hidden on a different person.
Snowy said softly, “Backup complete.”
Turt Monk said too, “Yellow witness stone sealed. Note: this minute possesses high historical educational value.”
Dustshark said, “Every time you say that, it sounds like you’re writing a memorial plaque for a disaster.”
Turt Monk was very serious.
“Because disasters usually require memorials.”
Vivian reached out and lightly touched the bracelet on Paul’s wrist.
“See you tonight.”
Paul looked at the cross on her chest.
“See you tonight.”
They separated in the crowd of Grand Canal Shopping City. One went left, one went right. The white light slowly closed between them.
But inside the blue witness stone and the yellow witness stone, that one minute still remained.
The cross, the faux tortoiseshell bracelet, Snowy’s low light, Turt Monk’s shell, Daylily Fairy’s flower. Dustshark’s untimely offer to testify.
And the message that had just arrived.
[Seventy-two hours, hand over Planetary Duck.]