Lord of The Red Planet

The phone screen felt warm in my palm. On it, Emma's face smiled, her fingers forming a cheerful 'V' sign.

Her head was resting on my shoulder. We looked like… a couple.

I remembered it. The photo was taken last night, during the feast. But I didn't remember changing my wallpaper. Maybe she did it.

Maybe.

"My Lord?"

I lifted my head. Belial was standing in front of me, holding out a small plastic bottle. Cold condensation clung to its surface.

"You seemed to be in deep thought," he said, his voice as flat as ever.

I took the bottle without a word. Opened it. Drank. A sharp, sour taste immediately filled my mouth. Orange juice. Strange. I never liked orange juice.

"What's next?" I asked, placing the bottle on the empty seat beside me.

"Wang Lei," Belial replied. Just that.

I waited. He didn't continue.

"Who?"

"The connection," he said. He glanced at the crowd around us. His eyes moved quickly, scanning every face, every movement. "He's the one who will open the door for us. To the factory."

I narrowed my eyes. "Apple?"

Belial nodded. Just once. A small, precise movement.

"Alright," I said. "You handle it."

I stood up, stretching my back. The seats in this airport waiting lounge were hard. I put my hands in my pants pockets. The air inside the terminal felt stuffy, a mixture of perfume, sweat, and the smell of food from the kiosk at the far end.

We walked. Belial half a step behind me. I could feel his presence without having to turn. Like a cold, solid shadow.

Outside, the automatic sliding doors opened with a soft hiss. The Shanghai air hit me immediately. Damp, cold, and with a strange smell. A mix of exhaust fumes, steam from the sewer grates, and something sweet like burnt sugar from a street vendor across the road. A light snow was falling, not like the soft flakes in Tokyo, but more like a piercing, frozen drizzle.

Skyscrapers loomed in the distance, their peaks lost in the gray fog. Neon signs with Mandarin characters flickered on the building facades, their light reflecting on the wet asphalt. Everything felt… big. And crowded.

"So this is that cyberpunk city," I muttered to myself.

"Taxi, sir? Taxi?"

A voice broke my reverie. A middle-aged man smiled at me, some of his teeth yellowed. He wore a thick, worn-out jacket. His hand pointed to a white sedan parked in the taxi line.

I turned to Belial. He just raised an eyebrow slightly. A wordless question.

"Yes," I said to the man. "A taxi will be fine."

Belial didn't object. He just walked ahead and opened the back door for me. I got in. The seat was covered in cold synthetic leather. The strong scent of a lemon-flavored car air freshener filled the air.

Belial got in beside me. The door closed, muffling the hustle and bustle of the street into a faint hum.

The driver got into the driver's seat, his face beaming. "Welcome to Shanghai, gentlemen."

He started the engine. There was no sound. Just a very quiet electric whine. I watched him press a button on the large touchscreen on the dashboard. The car began to move, merging into the heavy flow of traffic.

"An electric car?" I asked.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes sparkling.

"That's right, sir! A BAIC EU5. The best technology!" he said with pride.

I didn't answer. I just looked out the window, watching the snowflakes melt into streaks of water on the glass. The city moved around me. Electric bikes weaved between cars. Crowded double-decker buses stopped at bus stops. Pedestrians with colorful umbrellas crowded the sidewalks.

I saw an old woman pushing a cart of grilled corn. Steam billowed into the cold air. I saw a little boy pressing his face against a toy store window, his eyes fixated on a giant robot.

I thought about this electric car. About malfunctions. About the news stories I had read. But here, now, this car was just gliding smoothly. Taking me to a place I didn't know. To meet someone I had never met.

I reached for the bottle of orange juice. Drank it again. The sour taste was still strange.

"Sir," the driver said, his voice breaking the silence in the car.

"Where are we headed?"

Belial leaned forward slightly. The sound of navigation from his phone could be heard, a flat, emotionless female voice speaking in Mandarin. He showed the screen to the driver.

"To this address."

The driver squinted for a moment, then nodded quickly. "Ah, Xuhui District. Of course, sir. Straight there."

He turned the steering wheel, and the car turned smoothly onto a larger road. An overpass. The city spread out below us like an intricate electronic circuit, with streams of white and red light from the car headlights.

I leaned back again. The window still felt cold on my cheek.

I took out my phone. Unlocked it.

That wallpaper again. Emma. Her smile.

I swiped the screen. Opened the gallery.

There were a few photos in there that I didn't take.

One of Lily asleep on the sofa, her mouth slightly open, a trace of drool on her cheek. Her tail was curled around her legs like a cat's. The photo was taken from a low angle.

Another of Epsilon seriously reading a book, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose. The light from a window fell on her blue hair.

And one of myself. I was standing on the edge of a building's roof, looking at the view of Tokyo. Taken from behind. I didn't know Emma had taken it. In the photo, I looked… alone. My back looked stiff.

I looked at the photo for a long time.

Then I deleted it.

I went back to the wallpaper. Emma was still smiling there.

I locked my phone. The screen became a black mirror for a moment, reflecting the silhouette of my face against the blurred city lights.

I closed my eyes.

The sounds from outside seeped in. The hum of traffic. A faint siren in the distance. An ad from a giant digital billboard we passed, its sound like an indistinct whisper.

I could smell food. Something spicy and greasy. Probably from a restaurant we were passing below.

The car shook slightly as it crossed a bridge joint.

I opened my eyes.

We were off the overpass now. The streets were narrower. The buildings were no longer made of glass, but concrete and brick, with balconies full of laundry. Black electrical wires hung tangled above the street like a spider's web.

Belial was still silent beside me. He wasn't looking at his phone anymore. He was just staring straight ahead. Wary.

I wondered what he was thinking.

Was he bored?

Did he also feel alienated?

Or maybe he was just… waiting. Waiting for the next order. Like a program running in standby mode.

I didn't ask.

The car slowed, then stopped in front of an old restaurant with red lanterns hanging in front of it. Its wooden door looked heavy.

"We've arrived, sirs," the driver said.

I looked at the fare on the meter. I took out a few bills from my wallet. I didn't count them. Just handed them to the driver.

The driver's eyes widened when he saw the amount. He was about to say something.

"Keep the change," I said before he could speak. I opened the door.

"Th-thank you, sir! Thank you very much!"

I got out. The air felt colder here, biting at my cheeks. The vapor from my own breath formed a small cloud in front of my face. The sharp, warm scent of spices—star anise, Sichuan pepper—wafted from inside the restaurant, a strange contrast to the frozen air outside.

I stood on the wet sidewalk, waiting for Belial. He paid with his phone. A notification sound was heard. Then he got out.

The taxi door closed. The car drove away, its red taillights disappearing around a corner.

We stood there in silence. Across the street, an old man was pushing a wide shovel, clearing the remnants of the thin snow from the front of his shop. His movements were slow and rhythmic, dragging the already dirty snow to a gray pile at the edge of the road.

"Inside?" I asked.

"Upstairs," Belial replied. He pointed to a narrow staircase next to the restaurant. It was dark.

We walked up the stairs. The smell of food grew stronger, mixed with the damp smell of the brick walls.

On the second floor, there was a steel door. Beside it, a small security camera stared at us like an insect's eye.

Belial didn't knock. He just stood there.

A few seconds later, a loud click was heard. The door opened slightly.

A young man with a buzz cut peeked out. His eyes were wild, darting between me and Belial.

"Who are you?" he asked in Mandarin. His voice was tense.

Belial replied in the same language. Fluent. Without an accent. I didn't understand what he was saying.

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he opened the door wider, allowing us to enter.

The room was filled with cigarette smoke. Dimly lit. Only illuminated by a few low-hanging lamps. There were several mahjong tables. The people there stopped playing. They all looked at us.

In the middle of the room sat a fat man on a worn-out leather sofa. He was wearing an unbuttoned silk shirt, revealing his hairy chest and a thick gold chain. He was holding a lit cigar.

He looked me up and down. A mocking smile formed on his thick lips.

"So," he said, his voice hoarse, "these are the 'important guests' from Japan."

He exhaled smoke. The smoke formed rings that floated slowly before breaking apart in the air.

"You're five minutes late."