Chapter 658 - Cultural Weapons
With the First Counter-Encirclement Campaign ending in victory, a commendation ceremony was held simultaneously in Bairren City to honor outstanding native laborers and those with exceptional contributions since D-Day, as well as those who had performed excellently in wartime support. Commemorative medals, bonuses, and prizes were presented alongside the Ma'ao celebrations.
Many model workers and volunteer overtime laborers in the factories received various levels of Labor Service Medals. Several production units earned honorary titles and collective merit banners.
Villages and factories that had contributed particularly large numbers of militia members received the First Counter-Encirclement Victory Commemorative Medal as collective honors.
The transmigrators' commendations of factories and villages, their rewards for model workers, and the newspapers' glowing accounts of the Fubogun's overwhelming firepower and logistical superiority—all of this had led many to realize that Australian strength rested on abundant material power.
Before the Australian army even engaged the enemy, Lingao's fertile fields and bustling production lines had already predetermined victory. The new regime's emphasis on laborers and production ranked above even military prowess and conquest.
The people under transmigrator rule might not fully grasp this intent, but they understood they lived under a powerful authority.
And powerful rule meant peace. It meant the ability to rise safely each morning to work and return home safely to sleep each night. Though they ate coarse grains, wore rags, and rarely tasted meat, at least they knew this peaceful tomorrow would continue. Though farmers still feared natural disasters, they no longer worried about sudden conscription, their wives and daughters violated by bandits or rogue soldiers, or their homes and villages burned on a warlord's whim.
Strong rule often brought unbridled oppression—but fortunately, this regime was rational, understanding that tending to the people's interests brought long-term benefits. Compared to the old government, these Australian rulers treated the people far better. Exploitation was less harsh; no host of parasites wielded official power to squeeze and fleece the common people; even the destitute could find work and earn a meal.
Even the gentry and wealthy found life more stable. They had lost the power to do as they pleased with commoners, true—but they no longer needed to spend vast sums on bureaucratic leeches or bribing bandits. No need to maintain many household guards to protect their homes and fields. No need to nervously bargain with stone-cold killers or stay constantly vigilant against kidnapping when venturing out. No need to rush to the stockade walls with weapons at the first alarm gong in the dead of night.
The imperial expedition had briefly raised tensions. Many had feared that with the army's arrival, Lingao would plunge back into the chaos of three years past. When news came of the imperial defeat, everyone—high and low—seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
Peace had quietly descended on Lingao. Everyone felt it.
Soon, a familiar melody began to ring again in many ears.
"We have rapidly adapted a batch of songs for use, but many performance versions still follow the old templates," Fang Fei said at a joint meeting of the Great Library and the Propaganda Department.
"Using old performance versions may work temporarily," Ding Ding replied, "but in the long run, won't the natives find it strange?"
"Hmph—when future people go digging for dark history, memories of these songs will probably be a starting point," Yu Eshui agreed.
"So I propose we establish a performing arts troupe," Fang Fei continued. "A professional group like a song-and-dance ensemble, dedicated to performances. Then we can record their songs as standard versions."
"Oh, that's an anticipated topic." Yu Eshui nodded. "But performing arts troupes are for times of plenty and leisure. Setting one up now in such haste—I'm afraid the economy faction, like Director Ma, won't approve..."
"We already have the puppet theater troupe, so adding a song-and-dance ensemble shouldn't be a problem," Ding Ding interjected. He had long harbored this idea. "Culture is a propaganda weapon—the puppet theater's achievements speak for themselves! Besides, if Director Ma opposes even this, his next election is in jeopardy."
"Not necessarily, comrades." Yu Eshui coughed delicately. "Political consistency matters. Someone who casually changes stances cannot be a true statesman."
"Hmph—I know what you're really thinking." Ding Ding smiled at Fang Fei. "Propaganda weapon is just one use, right?"
Fang Fei nodded, his smile ambiguous: "We transmigrators can't always interact only with computers for entertainment. We should hold some balls, put on some shows."
"Fine—I won't object. Culture is a necessity for public life." Yu Eshui refused to take the bait. "But in this startup phase, everything should be kept simple. And with life secretaries just distributed, let's not create professional troupes yet. Better to start with mass amateur groups: student choirs, worker choirs, and such. First, the threshold is low and participation high. Second, it avoids future criticism."
"From whom?"
"From history," Yu Eshui said.
Under Ding Ding's personal attention, Hu Qingbai readily agreed to form the first choir from National School students. Those with singing talent were selected for amateur training.
Among the five hundred transmigrators, a few enjoyed singing and dancing, but almost none understood choral technique. Those who could read sheet music or knew vocal mechanics and voice parts were even rarer.
"Modern choral music essentially originated from church choirs. So let's have Lu Ruohua teach," Fang Fei told Ding Ding, who was frustrated by the lack of professional instructors. "I once heard a boys' a cappella choir at Lingao Church. It was beautiful—truly the sound of heaven."
Lu Ruohua was enthusiastic about helping organize the choir—he would do anything to please the Australians. Though two missionaries had died of disease in the Li regions, their two years' work had surpassed the mainland missionaries' efforts of twenty years.
Missionary work in Lingao was flourishing. When he heard that the Australians had defeated the mainland Ming court and were about to occupy all of Qiongzhou, expanding missionary territory further, Lu Ruohua held a grand Victory Thanksgiving Mass at Bairren Church.
Earlier, when rumors spread that the Ming army would attack, the Lingao Church had held several impressive masses and staged large-scale processions of sacred images to pray for victory. The Jesuits had played a major role.
The missionaries sincerely hoped the transmigrators would win—only under "Australian" rule could missionary work thrive.
His only regret was that diocesan authority remained in the Australian Church's hands, yet the Australian Church had inexplicably never sent a bishop to Lingao. A diocese without a bishop—how improper.
When Lu Ruohua heard the Australians wanted to form a choir, he agreed immediately.
"It's a pity Brother Michael isn't in Macau," he said with some regret.
"Who's he?"
"One of our brothers with a marvelous voice." Lu Ruohua spoke wistfully. "When he leads the hymns, one's soul seems to soar to God's side, bathed in holy light..."
Fang Fei immediately noted this talent: "Where is he?"
"In Goa," Lu Ruohua said with regret. "But that was five years ago. If he hasn't been called to the Lord's side..."
Goa's climate was notoriously unkind to Europeans; many died there of tropical disease.
Fang Fei wrote down the name in his notebook, reminding himself to ask He Ying to negotiate with the Jesuits and request this man specifically.
"These mystical types are quite useful."
But when Lu Ruohua saw that the choir included young women, he objected. Though convents had their own choirs, the all-male cathedral choir was the mainstream of sacred music in this era. He also felt that mixed male-and-female singing was improper.
"That's fine—just teach them separately. Mixed choirs have precedent. Figure out how to achieve this effect." He Ying showed him video footage of grand choral performances.
Lu Ruohua had seen the Australians' mysterious "living images" many times. He knew these lifelike moving pictures reproduced Australian life.
"Can it be done?"
"Yes." Lu Ruohua nodded. "But... if you're not performing opera, why do you need a choir?"
"Because we need it," He Ying said simply.
Lu Ruohua silently made the sign of the cross.
Seventeenth-century professional standards proved quite formidable. A few days later, the National School choir gave a special performance for transmigrators from the Propaganda Department and Great Library at the Lingao Puppet Troupe's small theater. Wen Desi was invited to attend.
Though the choir trained by Lu Ruohua sounded, to transmigrator ears, not quite vigorous enough—too melodic, with a faint church-choir flavor—the quality was undeniable.
"It sounds nice, but not powerful enough!" Wen Desi remarked at the end. "No momentum! Too refined! A mass choir is a mass performance—it should emphasize mass character. Don't fear roughness; the key is momentum!"
He then instructed Ding Ding to promote mass choral singing in all organizations, both internally and through regional and industry competitions. Build up the momentum.
"In light of our recent good fortune, let's invigorate spirits. Launch a grand 'Sing Australian Songs' campaign."
"I suggest renaming them 'Sacred Songs,'" Fang Fei proposed. "'Australian Songs' isn't quite right."
"Is it appropriate to call ourselves 'sacred'...?" someone objected.
"I think it's very appropriate! Comrade Fang Fei's suggestion is excellent—keen insight!" Wen Desi settled the matter. "If a group of individuals fundamentally changing the world doesn't deserve to be called 'sacred,' what does?"
Following his instructions, Fang Fei soon organized two more choirs within the Mechanical Department and the Tiandihui system. Using these three as the core, they received brief training and then fanned out to the grassroots to mobilize the masses. And so mass choral singing resounded throughout Lingao, igniting a wave of choral fervor.
The air carried spirited singing—Lingao's wired broadcast station was airing the "Industrial System Grand Choral Competition" live from Bairren Theater. Fourteen amateur choirs from the Manufacturing Directorate were competing. The songs, heard countless times, rang through the sky. Fang Fei shivered and returned to his desk.
His desk was buried under documents. Fang Fei was too exhausted even to look at them. Ever since Wen Desi's directive to launch a nationwide choral movement, he, as director of the Mass Activities Division, had been run off his feet. Every day meant "mass arts"—practicing songs, inspecting work, organizing competitions—a whirlwind of activity. Ding Ding had also handed him the Lingao Puppet Troupe to exploit fully. By transmigrator standards of frugality, professional arts groups received no slack—they rehearsed and performed nonstop, squeezed for maximum value.
He had just arranged a touring performance through Bopu, Ma'ao, and Chengmai for the Lingao Puppet Troupe. The troupe, now swollen to over fifty members, had loaded more than a dozen carts of props. Under his coordination, they had finally departed on a month-long tour.
He hadn't returned to his quarters for a week, consumed by these matters. When tired, he simply napped in the office.
The office door suddenly opened—without a knock, of course. That meant Zhen Qian. Everyone else at least knocked. These days, his wife had subjected him to multiple surprise inspections—for a man whose work required frequent contact with women and "training" them, such suspicion was perhaps natural.
"You really are working hard." Seeing her husband's exhausted face, Zhen Qian felt a pang of sympathy.
"It's fine." Fang Fei smiled wryly. "I used to resent being just a basic laborer. Now that I'm valued, it's not so pleasant either."
"Well, that little secretary outside is dark-skinned, but she's quite pretty."
"I have no energy to notice if she's pretty or plain." Fang Fei carefully avoided the topic. "You're off work?"
"No, I'm waiting for a car. I'm heading to Nanbao to survey the construction site—they're building fifty standard houses and dormitories. Director Mei asked me to design them."
"Is that so? Sounds good." Fang Fei replied absently.
"Will you be home tonight?"
"Probably not. Very busy. Tomorrow is the Agriculture System choral competition, then the winners advance to the county-wide finals..."
"I'm bored to death." Zhen Qian complained when she heard he wasn't coming home. "Life here is so empty. Besides work, there's nothing to do."
Transmigrators' leisure activities mainly consisted of watching various videos. To maximize resources, the BBS had set up a video-sharing system. Otherwise, they browsed the internal forum, played games in the recreation room, or read magazines and books. Some played sports. Overall, most leisure activities were quite "homebound" and distinctly male-oriented. For women who enjoyed shopping, Lingao's leisure options were utterly boring—the so-called "prosperity" of East Gate Market couldn't match even a small town's. And there was nothing to buy; money had nowhere to go.
"You're in propaganda—can't you think of something?"
"I have no ideas right now. Maybe a dance?"
"We have more men than women—how would we dance?" Zhen Qian said. "Even a disco, in this heat, wouldn't be fun."
"Let me think about it." He finally saw his wife off. Then Fang Fei received a call from Xiao Zishan.
"Are you free in a bit? I'll come over."
"No, no—I'll come to you," Fang Fei said quickly.
Xiao Zishan discussed the current situation. Transmigrators were demanding more from their leisure time. Life secretaries had been distributed and physiological needs met. Now spiritual needs loomed larger. After the victory, with pressure lifted, transmigrators were in a celebratory mood and craving entertainment.
He asked Fang Fei if he had any suitable solutions.
Fang Fei considered the options. A proposal to establish a transmigrator club had been submitted to the Yuan Laoyuan and would likely be approved soon—but that was a long-term solution.
"How about an annual gala?"
Organizing annual galas was Fang Fei's specialty. An annual gala meant gathering to eat, drink, and socialize, building rapport among colleagues and partners. The transmigrators could do likewise.