ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Autumn, 1984

• LOCATION: Editorial Office / Wanshou Road, Beijing

• MATHEMATICAL MODEL: Survival = Intake - Loss of Dignity

• VISUAL COORDINATES: Blood-stained red stars (Shuriken), Perfect military smoke rings

 

 

I stayed in the office all night. I didn't write the Neican. Instead, I scribbled formulas. Mathematics is more trustworthy than truth.

 

Truth = (Acquisition by the few) + (Editing by the few) = The Remainder of Fact. 

Truth = (Distortion + Selection)ⁿTruth = Idiot.

 

I looked in the mirror. No "Uncrowned King" lived there—only the white glare of cowardice and impotence. I buried the manuscript under a stack of old books and went home.

 

The autumn air at Wanshou Road had a manicured, vegetal coldness. My father lay on the sofa. Opposite him, two soldiers sat at perfect right angles. The red stars on their lapels looked like blood-stained ninja stars (shuriken).

 

“Sit,” my father said. His voice carried the exhaustion of a man who had reclaimed the peak, but felt the ice beneath him thinning. The officers were there to recruit me—to use me as a human stepping stone toward the summit of "Human Body Science.”

 

“Hahaha! You’ve got it all wrong.” My father exhaled a smoke ring that obeyed his will with military precision. He let out a dry crack of his knuckles. “Him? He has no special powers. If he’s not writing or doing math, he’s a fool. Heh-heh.”

 

He performed the role of a kind father with a chillingly perfect smile. “Did I not make myself clear?”

 

“Clear, very clear, Chief. We’ll take our leave.”