Chapter 322: A New Job

Hearing that she was being assigned to the National Police had initially sent Li Yongxun’s spirits plummeting. She had seen the “police” in Dongmen Market, with their conical hats, black uniforms, leggings, and the white batons hanging from their waists. They didn’t just handle “cases” like theft and robbery; they also dealt with arguments, littering, and spitting. They “meddled in more than a dog.” In terms of their responsibilities, they were roughly equivalent to the constables and bailiffs of a Ming yamen—a thoroughly “lowly service.”

“What do you know,” Ke Yun said, seeing her dejection and knowing what she was thinking. “The National Police aren’t the constables of a county yamen. They are a powerful department directly under the Senate. And being a police officer is no ‘lowly’ profession. In our Great Song’s Australian administration, there’s no such thing as lowly people. This is a job not just anyone can get; many naturalized citizens are fighting for a chance.”

“Is… is a police officer considered an official?” Li Yongxun asked pitifully.

“Of course they are. Look, after you join, you’ll be appointed a Probationary Officer. After three months of good work, you’ll be promoted to Police Officer Second Class. That means you’re on the official roster, a proper ‘cadre’ under the Senate. You get a monthly salary, various allowances, and a new uniform every year… Do you see Ming yamen runners getting this kind of treatment?”

Apart from the “head bailiff,” yamen runners were either “official” runners on the books or unofficial hangers-on. They weren’t considered government officials, not even “regular functionaries.” As for things like salary and benefits, the yamen never concerned itself with such matters.

Li Yongxun felt a stir of interest. The allure of “official status” was too strong. Even if it was a minor post, it was still a “post.” She had always admired Ke Yun’s uniform and the serious, calm, and authoritative air she carried when “on duty.” This kind of “dignity” was completely different from that of Ming officials.

Her own Flying Fish Robe, Embroidered Spring Saber, and “waist plaque” were, in the end, just a “joke,” not to be taken seriously.

But a police position in Lingao came with real “official status,” a genuine public service.

Besides, even if she didn’t want it, what other choice did she have in Lingao, the Australians’ stronghold? Ke Yun’s words about “Ziminglou needing people” were still ringing in her ears.

“But I wanted to join your department, Xingren Si…” Li Yongxun sighed, looking at Ke Yun’s black uniform.

Ke Yun smiled. “There’s still plenty of time. Take it slow.”

And so, Li Yongxun officially became a “police officer.” She first filled out a “Public Official Enrollment Registration Form” and was then placed in the “Police Administration Training Class” at Fangcaodi. As the National Police were expanding and the entire system was being revamped, there was an urgent need for a large number of personnel. Because Li Yongxun could read, write, and do arithmetic, and had a “family background” in the field, she was enrolled in the one-year police administration program instead of the three-month short-term training course.

During her studies, Li Yongxun had several times thought of writing to her family and her cousin in Foshan, but the thought of Ke Yun’s words made her shrink back. Besides, even if she wrote, how would she get the letters to them? The postal stations were under Australian control, and she had no trusted acquaintances here to carry a message. The matter was thus delayed.

The year of study at Fangcaodi changed her greatly. She graduated with excellent grades and was subsequently assigned to work in the Household Registration Department. Her rank was also promoted to Probationary Assistant Administrator.

The work in the Household Registration Department was incredibly dull. Although she now wore the black uniform she had once envied, her daily tasks were purely clerical. As the Central Government Council began establishing an island-wide household registration system, a flood of data poured into the department. Just creating the household files kept the entire department working day and night.

Originally, Ran Yao and the others had hoped that the “Yellow Registers”—the household records seized from the various county and prefectural yamen archives in Hainan—could provide some reference. The result, however, was just as the people from the Great Library had predicted: “consulting them only leads to more confusion.” The “Yellow Registers,” which had been compiled up to the late Tianqi era, not only failed to provide detailed household information but were essentially a “register of the dead,” filled with centenarians over one hundred years old.

After getting a taste of the “Yellow Registers,” what little affection Li Yongxun had left for the Ming dynasty dwindled even further. In the Household Registration Department, besides the newly trained officers, there were also a few retained clerks from the household sections of the various counties. Even these old hands had to admit that the Australians’ meticulous procedures and orderly methods were far superior. In short, the system the Australians had introduced was infinitely more advanced than the orally transmitted, secret techniques their own families had passed down for generations.

Although Li Yongxun had some complaints about her work, she had been steeped in the official world since childhood, where rank was everything. Coupled with a year of strict police training, she had developed a good habit of obedience. Moreover, while Ke Yun no longer appeared as frequently as before, she still met with her every ten days or so for a chat. It was clear that Ke Yun’s “guardianship” was not over. If she wasn’t careful and didn’t fully integrate into the Australian system, a place at Ziminglou was still “awaiting her.”

The tedious work had its small compensations. At the police academy, Li Yongxun had been assigned to “elective” studies in “Interrogation,” a course personally taught by Zhou Dongtian. After graduation, she began her “part-time” service in the interrogation department.

This “part-time” work wasn’t a daily occurrence. When a messenger silently delivered a “temporary overtime notice,” Li Yongxun knew she would be busy that evening.

Li Yongxun’s part-time job was “interrogation,” or perhaps more accurately, “torture.”

The interrogation department was located in the basement beneath the central courtyard. The thick, leather-padded doors were always closed. To enter, one had to pull a bell cord, after which a small window on the door would slide open to reveal the scrutinizing eyes of a guard.

Unauthorized personnel were forbidden. Even someone like Li Yongxun, who came for “part-time” work frequently, could not enter without an “overtime slip.”

Once through this main door, another spiral staircase led down to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs was a locked iron-barred gate, guarded by an officer. While waiting for the gate to be opened, one could sometimes hear shrill screams, but otherwise, there was only the hum of the ventilation ducts.

Beyond the iron gate was a long, vaulted corridor, lit day and night by gas lamps. The floor was terrazzo, flanked by drainage channels, and the walls were fully tiled. Along both sides were a series of doors, thickly padded with leather and fitted with peepholes.

Following the instructions on her notice, Li Yongxun would enter one of these rooms and begin her “interrogation assistance” work.

The subjects were both men and women. The women were one thing; Li Yongxun’s family had passed down the Jinyiwei’s secret “female punishments,” specifically for torturing female prisoners. But being asked to torture male prisoners made her uncomfortable at first, especially when they were completely naked.

Despite her discomfort, she never hesitated when it was time to “work.” Her father often said, “A job is a job, no need to think about it. Just do as your superior commands.” Director Zhou, her instructor, had said, “A prisoner has no gender.”

Li Yongxun worked diligently. With her inherited skills and “modern” training, she quickly became proficient. Her success was not just due to her solid “professional” foundation but also a psychological advantage: in a society steeped in male chauvinism, being stripped naked and tortured by a young woman was a profound humiliation for many men, causing them to break down much faster. Soon, she earned a small reputation in the basement. Even the old, experienced torturers from the former Qiongzhou prefectural and county yamen, now working for the National Police and State Security Bureau, looked at this young girl with newfound respect. This girl had skills.

Some had already guessed she came from a family of “public servants.” The techniques she displayed were not something an ordinary family would know. Following Ke Yun’s instructions, Li Yongxun never dared to speak about her family or background.

The sense of accomplishment from her nighttime overtime provided a small antidote to the monotony of her daily work. The overtime was hard, but it had its perks, such as a pay rate one and a half times the normal rate. For Li Yongxun, who had previously had little concept of money, this had become very important.

After officially joining the National Police, Li Yongxun moved into the dormitory area for single officers. There was no rent to pay; she only had to cover water and gas fees. The police headquarters also issued meal vouchers based on her shifts, so she spent little on food. As a single woman with no family to support, she should have been well-off.

Yet, she found herself short of money every month. Like many young people who had left the shelter of their families to live independently in a big city, Li Yongxun quickly got lost in the splendors of Lingao.

Her hometown of Nanjing was certainly one of the most prosperous cities of the time, but in terms of material abundance, it couldn’t compare to Lingao. Not only was there a dazzling array of delicious food, fun pastimes, and useful goods, but the social atmosphere, which allowed women to stroll and shop freely, pulled her even faster into the trap of consumerism.

She had grown up without want and lacked a sense of financial prudence. In Lingao, with no family to support, she spent her money freely.

First, it was various perfumes, cosmetics, and small accessories. Then came all sorts of “delicious foods” she had never tasted before. Then she took a liking to buying various “magazines,” and most recently, clothes. Although she wore a uniform almost every day, as a woman, she had a natural passion for fashion. In the past, the variety of ready-made clothes in Dongmen Market was limited, consisting almost entirely of various styles of work clothes. Later, to liquidate spoils of war and absorb currency, the Lingao Garment Factory began to consciously produce and release modern-style “fashion.” This included styles modified from modern patterns as well as “improved Hanfu” designs provided by the Hanfu enthusiasts.

As a result, Li Yongxun became one of Lingao’s “moonlight clan”—someone who spent their entire salary by the end of the month. The temporary overtime in the basement became an eagerly awaited and important supplement to her income.