Chapter 83: Ideological Trends
Wu De's other task was preventing escapes. Once outdoor labor began, someone would inevitably try to flee, and he had to eliminate that possibility entirely. A single successful escape would plant dangerous seeds of hope in the others.
Before the labor program commenced, he submitted a request to the Committee: the Military Group guards assigned to watch prisoners must be expert marksmen, preferably equipped with scopes and night-vision gear.
"Why do we need people that capable?" He Ming asked, puzzled.
"Instant kill on detection," Wu De explained. The more crisp and merciless the suppression, the more effective. Once fear took sufficient hold, guards would barely be needed at all.
Next, he dispersed those who had expressed willingness to join the pirates, scattering them across various labor teams with instructions to report directly if anyone discussed escape. He promised them nothing and offered no benefits—if they wanted trust, they would have to demonstrate the courage of selling themselves completely.
Perhaps the battle had left too deep an impression, or perhaps their previous lives had differed little from their current circumstances. Either way, aside from a few reports of small landlords and rich peasants grumbling that no one had come to ransom them and their farms now lacked workers, nothing unusual occurred.
Fu Bu'er, wounded in the leg, had not joined the others as a laborer but instead recuperated alongside other wounded men in the hospital tents. His days consisted of bandage changes and meals. The food was decent—rice gruel, thin but unlimited. He watched several white-coated pirate physicians check wounds daily with obvious care, and Fu Bu'er found himself impressed despite everything. Doctors have parental hearts, as the saying went. Gradually, his fear began to lessen.
Originally there had been over twenty wounded prisoners, but some died after surgery while others healed quickly and were sent to the labor teams. Fu Bu'er's laborer Ma Peng had suffered only a sprained ankle and was soon transferred away. Previously, Fu Bu'er would not have given this servant a second glance, but now his departure felt like a genuine loss. There was no longer a familiar face nearby.
Days later, Ma Peng found an opportunity to visit. He was working for the pirates now—though he no longer called them pirates, instead referring to them respectfully as "the Chiefs." The term was novel to Fu Bu'er. Ma Peng spent his days logging and digging. Every meal included white rice gruel, and every two or three days they received salted fish as well. Work lasted only six hours daily. Being forced to bathe was annoying, but he had gotten used to it. Overall, life was passable.
Hearing that the pirates fed their workers white rice and fish surprised Fu Bu'er. His own household fed laborers sweet potatoes year-round, reserving rice and salted fish as rewards during the busy seasons. Though it was no concern of his, he still grieved privately at the pirates' extravagance.
Ma Peng spoke of many incredible things: machines that moved by themselves, producing thousands of brick blanks in moments. A roaring, smoke-belching contraption that the Chiefs forbade anyone from approaching—supposedly the source of all power, constantly fed with firewood, consuming more fuel daily than an entire village used for cooking. Cooking stoves mounted on four-wheeled carts. Magical saws that could fell large trees in one pass.
He spoke with obvious excitement, but Fu Bu'er was no longer surprised. He had seen plenty of wonders himself these past days and had developed a mental preparation for pirate novelties.
"...The Chiefs say whoever works well and wants to stay can become a 'worker,'" Ma Peng continued.
"A worker? That's becoming a pirate."
"Not becoming a pir—" Ma Peng dropped his voice to a whisper. "That's not qualified enough, apparently. They call it 'worker'—I don't know how to write it—but anyway, three meals daily, meat at every meal, one day off per month..." His expression turned envious.
"What! You want to join the rebels?" Fu Bu'er watched his laborer sliding toward the rebel abyss. Ma Peng's life or death was not his concern—he simply feared losing a worker. He quickly reminded him this was a perilous path.
"I wouldn't dare. Master's right—that's execution for certain. But I hear some are willing." Ma Peng shrugged. "Besides, the county magistrate can't deal with them, so what can commoners do?" After ten-odd days working for the pirates, he seemed more articulate than before. "Either way, it's just work..."
"Ma Peng, you're harboring foolish thoughts!" Fu Bu'er scolded. "When the court's troops arrive, they'll all be reduced to ashes! If you attach yourself to pirates, you'll be branded as a rebel!"
Ma Peng opened his mouth but seemed unsure what to say.
Fu Bu'er seized the opportunity to ask about news from home. Ma Peng said he had been working continuously and had not encountered anyone from the village. Moreover, the pirates' worksites were numerous and sprawling; he was often driven around to different locations for days at a time and had lost track of where he even was. Fu Bu'er grew anxious—even for ransom extortion, shouldn't they send word? Why had the pirates remained silent?
Ma Peng had work waiting and hurried off. Fu Bu'er's leg had mostly healed by now, and he could walk again. Previously he had not dared venture outside the tent, fearing the pirates would kill him for attempting escape. But seeing Ma Peng move about freely emboldened him. Taking a stick as a crutch, he left the tent to look around.
Barbed wire surrounded the tents on all sides. The sight made him shiver—during the battle, blood-covered bodies hanging from barbed wire had been too terrifying to forget.
Outside the wire stood a wooden guard tower. Below it, a bored young pirate slouched with a rifle and bayonet slung across his back. Fu Bu'er had witnessed this weapon's power—firing densely like rain, a single volley killing everyone nearby. Such powerful firearms... not just their militia, but even regular troops would struggle against them.
Yet Fu Bu'er also knew that expecting regular troops to rescue them was pure fantasy. Ming soldiers would not trouble themselves over commoners' lives. If they came to suppress bandits, they would first behead the hostages and claim false credit—he had heard countless such stories in Guangzhou. Guest troops are like bandits, as the saying went.
Suddenly, a strange roar tore through the air—like firecrackers exploding, followed by rumbling thunder. He looked toward the sound and saw a red steel beast roaring and spewing dirty black smoke as it gnawed at the earth with incredible power. This scene had not appeared even in his worst nightmares. Fu Bu'er's face went pale, and his legs nearly gave way beneath him.
He watched the iron plates creak as the behemoth moved slowly forward. Then came a screech, and a giant scoop suddenly rose from the earth, soil and stones cascading like a waterfall. Everything about it was heart-stopping.
Fu Bu'er could not speak for the shock. Such power—what could possibly resist it? Forget Qiongzhou Prefecture's thousand-odd troops. Even mobilizing the armies of several provinces for joint suppression—what could they do against this? With such power, building so massively in this place... if not for permanent residence, then why?
At this thought, his mind became confused. Was this fortune or disaster? He could not tell. He squatted on the ground, helpless and utterly bewildered.
Wu De took the latest issue of Prisoner Ideological Trends to report to the Committee. They held high expectations for these prisoners, viewing them as seeds for future regime-building, and required weekly Monday reports on prisoner ideological states to inform policy adjustments.
The Committee Building—though actually just a simple prefab structure, everyone habitually called it the Office Building for the sake of prestige—had changed completely. The barbed wire that once surrounded it had been removed, replaced by high walls. A wooden double-gate now featured guard posts. Two rows of single-story buildings flanked the main office, and with bricklayers among the prisoners, constructing old-style brick-and-wood tile houses had proven no problem. The courtyard was entirely paved with gray bricks, and two flower beds sat on either side of a Beijing 212 jeep, with scattered motorcycles and bicycles parked nearby. At a glance, it resembled some county's Party Committee compound from the 1960s or '70s.
Wu De did not enter the main building but went straight to a tile-roofed room on the eastern side. A black-on-white sign at the door read in neat art lettering: "Document Printing Office." This was where the Committee edited and printed its documents and internal publications.
Internal publications had begun when the Committee moved to Bairren Rapids. Though Dingding had clamored to launch the Lingao Times, the Committee had refused, citing the timing as not yet ripe. Instead, he had been assigned to internal publications. These ranged in distribution from all-transmigrator circulation to Committee-only. Prisoner Ideological Trends was restricted to the Committee and the Theory-Policy Group—five copies per issue.
The printing room was dark; lights stayed off unless needed to conserve electricity. The large room contained a fast mimeograph machine and a big table from the ship, spread with stencils, steel plates, and styluses. Two computers and several Epson 24-pin printers occupied one corner, while paper boxes and stacks of printed documents lined the walls.
No one was inside. Wu De picked up a proof from the table—it looked like a small single-sheet newspaper. The masthead featured two wobbly, tadpole-like brushstroke characters. He looked closer: Lingao Express. Below that: "Written by Xi Yazhou."
Xi Yazhou's head had apparently healed, if he was writing mastheads now. Wu De read on. The newspaper reported extensively on "The First Counter-Encirclement Victory"—exaggerating that local authorities had mobilized a three-thousand-man army, completely annihilated by Divine Army might within half a shichen. Though the article was bylined "Military Commentator," the wargame-manual style was clearly the hand of Xi Yazhou, who had been wounded on D-Day.
Next came an editorial, bylined "Special Commentator": The reactionary Ming government will be completely eliminated by our brilliant, great Crossing Party.
Then a theory article introducing Marxism—this "Mr. Ma" had been reimagined as a hermit born during the Wanli reign. Bylined: Du Wen. Though lengthy and packed with statistics, Wu De still could not understand what it actually said. Probably Marx himself would not have known either.
On the back page, another article: Blood and Tears of Lingao Peasants—a collection of tragic farmer experiences. Wu De found it oddly familiar. Was this not excerpted from Xiao Guo's Interrogation Summary that he had copied over? Truly, all writing was plagiarism. Someone had added embellishments, and the imagination on display was outrageous. The author had wisely declined to sign their name.
(End of Chapter)