Provisional Contract

Tang Jie once said there are only two kinds of contracts worth keeping on the wasteland: ones bought with your life, and ones bought with the truth.

The former usually don't last three months. The latter—the latter usually don't last three years.

But Jiang Chao was here today to sign a third kind with someone from the Northern Base.

At five in the morning, Shen An and Jiang Chao talked on the second floor of the gas station. The so-called "second floor" was actually a storage mezzanine, where the owner used to keep inventory. Now all that remained was a drafty tin shed and a few broken chairs. The tin walls were riddled with bullet holes—in the first year of the apocalypse, some drifters had fought a firefight here over a barrel of gas. Ever since, the place had become what wastelanders considered "cursed," a site where something bad had gone down. No one wanted to get close.

But Jiang Chao didn't care.

He leaned against the tin wall, his chopping knife resting across his knees, his posture as relaxed as if he were at home. Outside, the sky was still dark. Only the old gas station sign clattered in the wind, and the air smelled of rust, diesel, and cooking smoke drifting from some camp in the distance.

Shen An had Ji Ming lead the clearance squad on perimeter watch and negotiated with Jiang Chao alone.

"Go ahead," Jiang Chao said without preamble. "What do you want?"

"You said earlier that the clearance mission for Hongliu Camp should be suspended in exchange for intelligence about Project Dawn," Shen An said, sitting across from him, his back straight as if he were attending a formal military briefing. "What kind of intelligence, exactly?"

"The true identity of Lu Shihan, the Northern Base Security Minister."

Shen An's eyes narrowed. "What identity?"

"He's the co-director of Project Dawn." Jiang Chao smiled, and in the dim miner's lamp light, the smile was somewhat indistinct. "No one at Northern Base knows this, but three years ago, I saw his signature on a destroyed file."

"Where did the file come from?"

"My brother left it behind." Jiang Chao's tone grew faint, as if he were talking about something that no longer concerned him. "Before he died, he hid all the materials related to Project Dawn. It took me three years to find everything."

Shen An said nothing. He was rapidly cross-referencing the personnel files of Northern Base in his mind—Lu Shihan, forty-three years old. Before the apocalypse, he was the vice president of some military-industrial enterprise. After the apocalypse, he was elected Security Minister of Northern Base. His father, Shen Du, had died of an "accidental infection." But Lu Shihan survived and even became Shen Du's "successor."

For three years, Lu Shihan had cultivated an image at Northern Base of being a "rational, calm, professional administrator." Unlike Shen Du, who was sharp and aggressive, every key decision Lu Shihan made—such as adjusting the clearance list, taking over camps, or allocating supplies—pointed precisely toward the same goal: making Northern Base the only "order" on the wasteland.

"My brother's file also mentioned," Jiang Chao continued, "that Lu Shihan and my father—Shen Du—were college classmates. They initiated Project Dawn together."

"Your father?" Shen An's voice turned cold.

"That's right, your father." Jiang Chao didn't dodge the subject. "He never mentioned Lu Shihan's name in front of you, did he?"

"No," Shen An said. "In front of me, he only ever talked about research. He never talked about people."

"That's him," Jiang Chao said. "Project Dawn couldn't have operated all these years on one person's strength alone. It needed a research director—your father—and a resource coordinator—Lu Shihan. One provides the brains, the other the brawn."

Shen An fell silent.

He thought of his childhood—no, he didn't want to think about his childhood. What kind of person was his father, Shen Du? In his childhood memories, that man was always in his study, always in a white shirt, always wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He didn't remember his father ever holding him, but he remembered the frequency with which his father beat him with a belt—on average, once a week. The reasons were "grades dropped" or "got into a fight with classmates."

Later, when he joined the research team and worked beside his father, he understood at nineteen that his father didn't not love him—he simply didn't see him as a "person." He was a creation, a piece of work that had to be perfect, a "Son of Dawn" who could have no flaws.

"This intelligence of yours," Shen An said. "I need to verify it."

"The verification method is simple," Jiang Chao said. "I'll take you to the perimeter of the Northern Base core zone. You'll see Lu Shihan walk out of Shen Du's private lab with your own eyes."

"You've been inside the core zone?"

"I've gotten close to it." Jiang Chao smiled, and there was a confidence in it that Shen An couldn't read. "Don't ask me how I got close—that's another piece of intelligence, and it'll cost you extra."

Shen An looked at him. Jiang Chao was two years younger than him, but there was a maturity in his eyes that made Shen An uncomfortable—not the kind that came from having "seen a lot," but the kind that came from having "made peace with life and death."

"What are your terms?" Shen An asked.

"Three." Jiang Chao raised three fingers.

"First, Hongliu Camp must be removed from Northern Base's clearance list, and its upgrade from C-level to S-level must be reversed."

"Agreed, but it'll take time."

"One week," Jiang Chao said. "Within one week, I want to see Hongliu Camp crossed off Northern Base's clearance list, or the deal is off."

Shen An nodded.

"Second, the security of Hongliu Camp is my responsibility. All clearance squad operations must be approved by me before entering Hongliu Camp's territory."

"I can't make that call," Shen An said. "But I can negotiate with Northern Base on your behalf."

"It's not 'negotiate.' It's 'must.'" Jiang Chao's gaze turned cold. "Hongliu Camp is not an appendage of Northern Base. They are survivors of the wasteland, not your Northern Base's lab rats."

Shen An was silent for a few seconds. He calculated in his mind—if the clearance mission for Hongliu Camp were to be revoked by the upper echelons of Northern Base, what kind of "reason" would be needed? Hongliu Camp was one of the few shelters on the wasteland that "didn't abandon the old and weak." The upper echelons of Northern Base weren't unaware of this, but on the wasteland, "old and weak" meant "low productivity," meant "consuming supplies." Lu Shihan had always wanted to take over Hongliu Camp's supplies—food, weapons, and the "young and strong" survivors in the camp—under the pretext of "clearance."

"Fine," Shen An said. "But Hongliu Camp must report its monthly supply inventory to Northern Base. That's the bottom line."

Jiang Chao shot him a look. "I can give you the supply inventory, but only you. Not Lu Shihan."

"Why?"

"I don't trust him." Jiang Chao said. "You say he was my father's partner—that kind of man isn't worth trusting."

Shen An didn't respond. He knew Jiang Chao was telling the truth, but he couldn't admit it—at least not when it came to Hongliu Camp's supply inventory.

"Third." Jiang Chao raised his third finger. "I need to enter Northern Base. I need to go into the core zone once and see a file with my own eyes."

"What file?"

"The original copy of my brother's death report."

Shen An frowned. "The archives at Northern Base have strict access controls. How do you plan to get in?"

"You'll take me in." Jiang Chao looked at him, his gaze fixed squarely on Shen An's face. "As your 'key witness,' I have the right to access certain files at Northern Base."

"You're asking me to violate Northern Base's regulations."

"Vice Captain Shen." Jiang Chao laughed, and there was a wasteland-specific cunning in that smile. "If you don't take me into Northern Base today, tomorrow Lu Shihan will find out that you concealed information about me today. We're on the same boat now."

Shen An didn't respond. Jiang Chao was telling the truth. From the moment he had concealed information about Jiang Chao in his report, he was no longer "Shen An, Vice Captain of Northern Base." He was "Shen An, cooperating with Jiang Chao."

He quickly assessed the risks in his mind—taking Jiang Chao into the Northern Base core zone. If he was caught, he would lose his rank, his future, even his life. But if what Jiang Chao said was true—if his father was still alive, and Lu Shihan was his father's "partner"—then Northern Base itself was a massive lie.

Did he want to expose that lie?

He asked himself, and when the answer surfaced in his heart, even he was startled. Yes.

"I need more than just the file," Shen An suddenly said.

"What?"

"You have antibodies in your body." Shen An looked at him. "I need you to provide a blood sample."

"For what?"

"Research," Shen An said. "If you really do have antibodies, Northern Base's medical team can extract an Antiviral Factor. It could save many lives."

"Does that include mine?"

"Yes."

"Can I leave Northern Base alive?"

"I promise."

Jiang Chao stared at Shen An for a long time. Promises on the wasteland were worthless—but there was something in Shen An's gaze that made him trust him just a little. Not because Shen An was honest, but because deep in his eyes, Jiang Chao saw something he himself once had: buried beneath all the rational calculation, a flicker of the thought, "I want to believe in someone," that hadn't yet died out.

"Fine," Jiang Chao said. "But not now."

"When?"

"After I get my brother's death report." Jiang Chao stood up, his movements carrying a wasteland-specific crispness. "Fair trade."

Shen An stood up too and extended his hand. "Then let's make it a Provisional Contract."

Jiang Chao glanced at Shen An's hand. It was very pale—the kind of pale rarely seen in the apocalypse—with distinct knuckles, clean in a way that didn't belong to someone who lived on the wasteland. Jiang Chao almost wanted to laugh. Who on the wasteland would reach out and shake hands with a Wandering Hunter? This guy really hadn't been beaten down by the wasteland yet.

He reached out. "Provisional Contract."

Their hands met. Jiang Chao's hand was rough, covered in old scars, but his grip was steady. After they shook, Jiang Chao shoved his hands back into his pockets, turned, and headed downstairs. At the top of the stairs, he stopped.

"Vice Captain Shen."

"Hm?"

"You just agreed that the supply inventory goes to you and not Lu Shihan." Jiang Chao looked back, his eyes—bright even in the dim light—fixed squarely on Shen An. "I trust you. But let me warn you—on the wasteland, anyone who betrays a contract won't live to see the next morning."

"I understand," Shen An said.

"Good."

Jiang Chao went downstairs. His footsteps clanged on the iron staircase, like one of those rare "normal sounds" on the wasteland.

Shen An stood upstairs a while longer. He rarely did this—after making a decision, wondering "what if I'm wrong." But today he did.

He pulled an old photo from his pocket. The photo had long since yellowed. It showed two young men, standing shoulder to shoulder at the entrance of a lab, with the words "Project Dawn" in large characters behind them. The younger one was tall and lean, with a long face, and in his eyes shone a certain "young and fearless" light. The taller one was refined, wore glasses, and smiled gently.

It was Jiang Lan and him.

Back then, Shen An was nineteen, just assigned to his father's research team. Jiang Lan was four years older, his father's first doctoral student, and the kindest person on the team to him. Jiang Lan would take him to the cafeteria when his father wasn't around, help him revise sections of his reports that his father had rejected, and sit with him until dawn on nights when he had nightmares.

He still remembered what Jiang Lan had said to him—

"Xiao An, someday, someone will hold your father accountable for what he's done. But it won't be the law that holds him accountable—it'll be people's hearts."

He hadn't understood then. He understood now.

He put the photo back in his pocket. When he went downstairs, Ji Ming was already waiting outside.

"Vice Captain." Ji Ming glanced upstairs. "How did it go?"

"Suspend the clearance mission for Hongliu Camp," Shen An said. "I'll write the report myself."

"You'll write it yourself?" Ji Ming was taken aback. "Vice Captain, these things are usually handled by the comms officer—"

"I'll write this one myself." Shen An cut him off. "You're coming back to Northern Base with me. There are some things I need to verify in person."

Ji Ming didn't ask further. He had worked under Shen An for two years. He knew when to ask questions and when to shut up.

As they walked out of the gas station, the first pale light finally broke on the horizon. Mornings on the wasteland were cold. Shen An looked back at the drafty tin shed on the second floor—Jiang Chao was no longer there, but on the spot where his chopping knife had leaned against the wall, a fresh scratch was left on the tin, like some signature that only a wasteland-dweller could understand.

Shen An suddenly recalled what Jiang Chao had said earlier—"on the wasteland, anyone who betrays a contract won't live to see the next morning."

He wasn't afraid of the threat. What he was thinking was: how many betrayals had Jiang Chao been through to survive this long? In a place rife with betrayal, what made him dare to reach out and shake the hand of a Northern Base officer?

Shen An lowered his head and looked at the palm of his right hand—the warmth of that handshake was still there, warmer than anything else on the wasteland.He suddenly felt that this Provisional Contract might be far more complicated than he had imagined.

Not because of interests, not because of the truth, but because — for the first time, he wanted to keep a promise, not to "complete a mission," but for the person who had held his hand.

This feeling was too unfamiliar, so unfamiliar that it frightened him a little. But he didn't pull his hand back; he simply put that hand into his pocket and followed Ji Ming toward the Purge Base.

The first ray of sunlight on the wasteland rose from the horizon, illuminating the old scar on his shoulder. It had been left behind when the Dawn Incident broke out three years ago, and he had never told anyone how that scar came to be.

Just as he had never told anyone that when his father beat him with a belt, he never cried.

Because he knew crying was useless.

But today, he suddenly thought — perhaps some things are not something you can avoid doing just because they are "useless." Like believing in someone, like keeping a promise, like finding, at the end of the wasteland, the person to whom he had owed the truth for three years.