Eight fifty the next morning, when Liang Cheng reached the first floor of Building B, Liang Chuan was already in the lobby.
He wore a dark jacket, collar scrubbed shiny, zipper half up, a sweater underneath—a sweater Liang Cheng knew; he'd bought it for him Spring Festival five years ago, a size too big then, just right now. In his hand a plastic bag with two cups of yogurt in it, a straw already stuck in one.
"For Niuniu." Liang Chuan shifted the bag to the other hand. "She insisted on coming; I told her the grown-ups have business. She crammed one of the yogurts in my pocket—said it was for my ma."
"Ma can't drink this." Liang Cheng said.
"I know." Liang Chuan said. "I'm just bringing it."
Nine fifty-five, He Yu came down. Gray sweater, a sheet of paper in his hand; he registered two entries at reception. Liang Cheng saw the sheet was a Visitor Escort Registration (Product Side); the escorted-persons field carried two names. The girl at reception said nothing about the machine-room temperature this time; she gave Liang Chuan one extra look.
The elevator went down. B1, B2. Liang Chuan said nothing in the elevator; out of it, the cold air rushed up at them and he zipped his jacket to the top.
"Ground rules first." He Yu walked ahead. "The thing you're seeing today isn't launched. Product number S-07, the family viewing cabin. Two years in the building; the review didn't pass. The reason it didn't pass is written in the review comments—four characters: insufficient demand. Level-1 accounts in the whole company: thirty-one."
"Thirty-one people can't hold up a feature." He pushed open the machine room's glass door. "The thing itself is a good thing. Sitting idle is sitting idle."
Fan noise in layers. On the whiteboard, "hooked up this month: 21" was still 21. Wu Yan was on duty in the DA area; he looked up, saw the three of them, stood. He Yu said product re-verification, registration's with me. Wu Yan gave an oh, sat, stood again, picked the pink balloon off the desk and handed it to Liang Chuan: "Hold this a second while I free a hand." Liang Chuan held the balloon, had nowhere to put it, and in the end set it on the cabinet beside his leg.
On the way to the cabin's row of cabinets there was a rank of lockers with yellow tags on them; two words on the tags: pending clearance. One slot stood empty, the shelf wiped clean, an electromagnetic lock hanging from it.
"How come this one's empty." Liang Chuan asked.
"Cleaned out." Liang Cheng said.
"Cleaned out and nothing new moves in?"
"There's a queue. The number of slots is fixed."
Liang Chuan looked at him once and asked nothing more.
The cabin stood at the very back of the DA area, against the wall, a head taller than a man, glass, taking up half a room. Inside the glass it was lit, and it was a room: white walls, cement floor scrubbed bright, one plank bed, a quilt on it, folded. The door was on the far side; behind the door hung a navy cardigan, sleeves rolled twice.
Someone sat on the edge of the bed.
Seen through the glass she wasn't big, back a little bowed, hands clasped on her knees, head tilted slightly toward the door. She didn't move. After a while she reached out and straightened the quilt, smoothed it flat, sat back, same posture again, hands clasped on her knees, head tilted toward the door.
Liang Chuan stood outside the glass. He didn't go in, didn't make a sound. He stood there a good minute; the plastic bag twisted once in his hand, twisted back.
"What's she sitting there waiting for." he said.
"For a call." Liang Cheng said.
"There's no phone in that room."
"She's used to waiting."
Liang Chuan said nothing more. He set the plastic bag on the floor, crouched, stood again, hands stuck in his jacket pockets, watching her straighten the quilt through the glass. When she'd smoothed it, she sat back, head tilted toward the door.
He Yu tapped a few keys on the panel at the cabin's side. A small screen on the outer wall lit:
> Scene: bedroom (default) Tier: Level 1 > Render hold: on Billing mode: simulated production rate (1.20 yuan/min) > Billing account for this session: caller side; absent prepayment, counted into the called account's outstanding balance > Session initialized; clock running
The clock began to run. 00:00, 00:01.
"The prototype's meter is real." He Yu said. "One twenty a minute, running from initialization—doesn't matter whether anyone goes in, it runs. Don't take this for a treat on me."
He Yu pointed at an intercom hanging by the cabin door, then at a small red cover on the wall: "Pick up the intercom and talk. The red one is the abort button—this one out here can be pressed; there isn't one inside. Press it and the rendering cuts. Today's bill gets paid all the same."
With that he left, back toward the ledger desk, his back turning past a row of cabinets and out of sight.
Liang Cheng picked up the intercom. He pressed the talk key; the sound field inside the cabin opened, and he could hear the stir inside—very faint, cloth against wood; she'd sat long enough to shift her position.
"Ma." he said.
She stood almost at once. Too fast; she caught the edge of the bed. She took two steps toward the door inside the room, stopped, looked all around for where the voice came from, then said it to the middle of the room:
"Ah—Xiao Cheng."
"It's me."
"You called." she said. "I've been sitting here; I didn't go out. Have you eaten?"
"Eaten. Ma, go on with what you were doing." Liang Cheng heard his own voice sound in the cabin, flat. "I've still got things on this end—I'll call you again in a bit."
The other end went quiet a second.
"Ah." she said. "You go busy. Ma will sit."
She went back to the edge of the bed. Hands clasped back on her knees, head tilted toward the door.
Liang Cheng hung the intercom back. Before he hung it he said "in a bit"; the two words dropped into the cabin and she sat a little straighter.
The two of them stood there with the glass between them. Inside, she sat a while, got up, took the cardigan down from behind the door, shook it out, laid it over her forearm, stood a moment, hung it back, sleeves rolled twice the same as before. She did these things unhurried, one thing one at a time. Done, she sat back on the bed edge, hands clasped on her knees.
Liang Cheng walked the length of the glass. Three-odd meters wide; he walked it down and back—no seams to be seen inside, and no him to be seen inside either.
The machine room's meter ticked. 00:05:12, 6.14. Wu Yan tapped keys at the far end of the DA area, the pink balloon up on the cabinet, not stirring. He Yu didn't come over; the old computer's screen glowed behind the back row of cabinets.
Wu Yan came by once with two bottles of water, pressed one on Liang Cheng, set one at Liang Chuan's hand. He left as soon as he'd set them down; before going he looked into the cabin once, then at Liang Chuan once, and said nothing.
"Now you talk." Liang Chuan opened.
"About what."
"About what you didn't finish last night." Liang Chuan pointed into the cabin. "This, and that plan of yours—what's it got to do with each other. Fifty thousand and one hundred seven; you two going back and forth like a duet—it wore me out just listening."
"The plan has nothing to do with this. This is to have a look at her."
"Have a look at her." Liang Chuan repeated it like he was biting down on something. "Fine, have a look at her. Then I'll ask you—that fifty thousand and one hundred of yours, where's the money? Salary nine thousand, installment thirty-one hundred for five years, and your apartment?"
"Sold." Liang Cheng said. "The one in Mingcheng Yayuan. Listed at six hundred sixty; four hundred thirty to hand."
Liang Chuan's hands came out of his pockets.
"You listed it?"
"Listed it Wednesday."
"Who told you to list it?"
"It's my own apartment." Liang Cheng said. "I listed it myself."
"Your own apartment." Liang Chuan's voice came up. "Who put up the eighty-thousand down payment? Ma sold her mother's tile-roof house. That house held three rooms of my ma. And you listed it on your own?"
"The money goes into this plan." Liang Cheng said. "The four hundred thirty: clears the forty-one-five account, eight thousand six to pull the disc. The rest—"
"The rest goes to the bank!" Liang Chuan cut him off. "Your fifteen-year loan, a hundred seventy-three thousand left; a rushed sale—list at six hundred sixty, they bargain you to six hundred forty, you still have to take it. Your forty-three in hand, minus the bank, leaves two hundred fifty thousand. Two hundred fifty—and you dig seventy out of that to fill this pit, then borrow on the Filial Score for sixty months at thirty-one hundred a month." He drew a breath. "Have I done the arithmetic for you? Have you done it yourself?"
"Five hundred sixty-nine." Liang Chuan nodded, two nods. "Five hundred sixty-nine—you couldn't even cab to Changping and back to pull the disc on that. Start from the top, one number at a time. Don't pick and choose what you tell me."
Liang Cheng let him finish, then set his voice flat.
"Here's how the money runs." he said. "Fifty thousand and one hundred seven point seven—two parts. Forty-one thousand five hundred seven seventy is her outstanding balance: the Filial Score credit lands, clears this part first, offset complete, the account delists, the downgrades stop. Eight thousand six hundred is the three steps—pull the disc, rebuild, calibrate. Pull it, and the rebuild has to finish inside seven working days; past due, the disc goes back to the warehouse and the money isn't refunded. Credit runs sixty installments at thirty-one hundred. I'm reinstated; nine thousand twenty comes in a month. Rent twenty-four hundred, student loan twenty-one eighty, knocked out—five hundred sixty-nine left."
He paused.
"Out of the five sixty-nine: lunch four eighteen, transit two twenty, phone eighty-eight—it's all been laid in. Laid it out three times."
Liang Chuan heard him out and didn't answer. He dug his phone out of his pocket, opened the calculator, tapped a few keys, stared at the screen a while, deleted it, tapped it through again. When he'd tapped it he put the phone away.
"Nine thousand twenty minus eight thousand four hundred fifty-one," he said, "and you keep five hundred sixty-nine. If Ma knew you were living on five hundred sixty-nine a month, that account of hers would apply to cancel itself on the spot."
The meter on the cabin's outer wall ticked. 00:11:47, 14.04. Liang Cheng's eyes crossed the number and his voice came down half a notch.
"The money's settled." he said. "You don't have to worry about it."
"I don't worry about the money, what do I worry about?" Liang Chuan said. "You put it all up front. Pull the disc—what comes back? That K-whatever of yours: her, five years ago, the morning of March fourteenth, nine fifty-two. Nine fifty-two, Ge. She passed at five in the afternoon. The one you pull back—the last thing she ever said to you and me was the night before, telling you to shut the window."
Liang Cheng didn't answer. He'd never told Liang Chuan this layer.
"You never told me this." Liang Chuan looked at him. "You never told me restoring means putting five years ago in place of now. You only said fifty thousand and one hundred seven."
"The one on the disc is missing nothing." Liang Cheng said. "Chuan Chuan's in it, Dad's funeral's in it, the kitchen's in it, that pot of red-braised pork she taught you to reduce—it's in it. This one now—" he tipped his chin at the cabin, "is Level 1. One bedroom, one phone, one line of writing a week. Below this there is no Level 2; below this is Level 4, and one sentence is all that's left—one minute and two seconds, around and around."
"Better than nothing."
"That's what I'm saying." Liang Cheng said. "Better than nothing."
"I'm not talking about you." Liang Chuan said. "I'm talking about those five minutes Niuniu put in last week. Can she hear them? Even hearing them, she can't hold them—she said so herself, her memory leaks. December twenty-three I put in five minutes; I didn't even hang up first. Just that once. The one you pull back doesn't know I ever called. Niuniu's three hundreds—that's in her one line of writing. The one you trade back doesn't know. Fifty thousand and one hundred buys you a ma who doesn't know we called."
Liang Cheng leaned on the cabinet and didn't answer at once.
"The one on the disc—does she know Niuniu." Liang Chuan asked.
"She knows her. The three-year-old Niuniu." Liang Cheng said. "The one who took three hundreds last week—she doesn't."
Liang Chuan turned the sentence over in his mouth. After a while he said: "The year she passed, Niuniu had just learned to count—got to twenty and started over. She'd count all afternoon, right in front of her. And she never tired of it. Just listened."
Inside the cabin she straightened the quilt once more. Smoothed it, sat back. The outside meter jumped to 00:14:26, 17.40.
Liang Cheng kept his eyes on the meter.
"Seventeen forty already." he said. "The two of us stand here fighting—one twenty a minute."
Liang Chuan had seen the meter too. He looked at it two seconds, turned his head back to the cabin, and laughed once, a short one.
"You're in this trade." he said. "Your company even puts a price on this."
"A prototype." Liang Cheng said. "Not launched."
"Launch it and they'll collect." Liang Chuan said. "That Filial Score of yours, Last Words Plus—which of them wasn't thought up this way. I'll say my piece once more—the one-eighty tier Ma signed herself, one-eighty on the price list, the words she wrote in pencil I photographed and sent you: keep the voice only, that's all. Not one word extra for after she's gone. And now look at you—the voice is what you can't hold on to, and you put fifty thousand and one hundred on her. Did you ask her?"
"I asked." Liang Cheng said. "Last night. She said don't pin it on Ma."
Liang Chuan stalled.
"She said that?"
"She said this side is a room that watches the phone. She said Ma takes up no room."
Liang Chuan went quiet. He watched her through the glass. She sat on the bed edge, back bowed, head tilted toward the door, the cardigan hanging behind the door, sleeves rolled twice. Her posture waiting for a call and her posture waiting at the door were one posture, fifty years in the making—someone comes in, you go meet them; the phone rings, you pick up; a person's whole life is kept busy by those two things.
"She said that for you to hear." Liang Chuan said. "Everything she ever said in her life was said for other people. Pain went unsaid, want went unsaid, the night she signed the contract—two forty in the morning—unsaid. The more she says she takes up no room, the more it means she knows the room is going. You're in collections. Somebody tells you money's tight—you believe them?"
"I don't." Liang Cheng said.
"You don't believe it, and you still block me with her words."
"I'm not blocking you." Liang Cheng said. "I'm stating. The plan is in motion; the disc gets pulled Thursday; rebuild takes seven working days; the loan gets refiled now I'm reinstated. Those are procedure. Everything you asked is inside the procedure. Fighting isn't."
"Procedure." Liang Chuan said. "Same fault as hers. She holds the days up in front of talk; you hold the procedure up in front of talk."
Liang Cheng didn't take that one.
Liang Chuan didn't say anything more either. The two of them stood with the glass between them a while. The cabin's clock ran, 00:19:03, 22.80. She got up, went to the door, rolled the cardigan's cuff one more turn, done, sat back. That movement she must have done a thousand times.
"I'll say it one last time." Liang Chuan's voice came down, down very low. "Don't sell the apartment. Don't take the Filial Score loan. The disc—pull it if you must, I won't stand in your way; that's your shift you stood, I can't get my hand in. But don't put yourself into the pit too. Ma's passbook—the PIN is your birthday written backward—eight thousand five, and forty-seven debits came off it, never once opened her mouth at you. A person like that would sooner delete herself than let a child foot her bill. The way you're running this now—if she were here, she'd fight you to the end."
"If she were here." Liang Cheng said. "There'd be no need to run it this way."
Liang Chuan's mouth opened, and closed.
Right there, he suddenly stopped fighting.
He couldn't have said which sentence took him apart. He turned back, and through the glass watched her smooth the quilt, watched her sit back, watched her head tilt toward the door. He watched a long time—long enough that Liang Cheng thought he'd pick the fight back up.
"Let me talk to her alone for a while." Liang Chuan said.
Liang Cheng looked at him.
"What are you going to say."
"Five minutes is all I need." Liang Chuan said. "That five minutes of yours—the one a week that buys off seven days. Niuniu put hers in; I'll put in one too. This week's quota went to Niuniu, I know that. The system won't count me. I will."
He bent down and picked the plastic bag up off the floor, drew out the cup with the straw in it, weighed it in his hand, put it back, and just stood there holding the bag.
"I just walk in?" he asked. "Push the door?"
"Push it straight in." Liang Cheng said. "There's no red button inside. If anything happens, I press this one out here."
"No red one inside." Liang Chuan repeated it. He looked at the red cover two seconds. "Then if something happens to her—what does she press?"
Liang Cheng had no answer.
Liang Chuan didn't wait for one. He pulled the door open—heavier than it looked; it took him two pulls—and a thread of cold air poured out through the gap. He went in and pulled the door shut behind him. The indicator light on the door jumped:
> Session 02 Caller: Liang Chuan (second son) In call Clock running
Liang Cheng stood outside the glass. The sound field didn't carry out here; not one word came through. Liang Chuan set the plastic bag on the floor beside her bed and stood next to her, half a step apart. She lifted her head to him, looked a second or two, raised a hand and patted the bed edge on the inside.
Liang Chuan sat down.
Liang Cheng withdrew to the back row of cabinets. He Yu sat at the old computer and didn't turn around.
"Tomorrow morning, nine, downstairs." He Yu said. "Did you bring your ID?"
Liang Cheng patted his inner jacket pocket. The card was there.
He went back to the glass. Session 02's clock was jumping, 00:00, 00:01, 00:02. One twenty a minute. Liang Cheng took his hand off the red cover and watched his brother's mouth open and shut in there, one hand holding the corner of her quilt.