Beasts of the Tropics (2)
Jakarta was a sinking city. The lives and desires of thirty million people weighed heavily on the fragile ground, causing the entire residential area to visibly subside moment by moment. Cracked roads, cracked buildings, and annual severe flooding had become such everyday realities that calling them Jakarta's routine was no exaggeration.
Krut wore a smile as he explained the situation, which was intimately tied to that very routine.
"The accommodation you were scheduled to pass through has been temporarily restricted due to safety inspections, so we had to urgently find an alternative. I apologize for not contacting you in advance."
"Can't be helped if that's the case. Understood."
The lodging in question was merely a stopover for laundering our travel itinerary. I put on the sunglasses handed to me by a subordinate and donned my hat. A subordinate of similar build and identical attire would be waiting at the prepared accommodation.
There was no trace of tension in Krut. A sign that deception was unlikely. Still, Kyung-tae attempted contact to confirm the details of the schedule change and its veracity. Then, uncharacteristically, he scolded with a cold expression.
"Hey, Director Hwang. You gonna do your job right or what? If you'd at least sent a text first, I could've checked the moment we landed. But you make hyungnim verify it himself? You sane? How about I summon you to HQ later for a nice little retraining? Promise it'll be real comfortable."
The scolding call didn't last long. Time wasn't infinite if we were to launder our path and return to the airport for the next flight.
Once everyone completed immigration, we boarded the prepared vehicles and entered the city.
Jakarta's landscape, revisited after several years, was striking. Skyscrapers rose endlessly despite the city's subsidence. Powerful pumps drew up unlimited groundwater everywhere, accelerating subsidence or not. Roads, once flat, now undulated like waves, burdened further by the world's infamous traffic jams—the weight of civilization itself.
In markets tilted on their foundations, merchants haggled with customers. Half-flooded first floors of two-story homes lay abandoned, functioning essentially as single-story structures.
The hungry, too consumed by today's poverty to think of tomorrow, and the sated, blinded by immediate profits to ignore looming doom. Their massive, destructive harmony. This city exemplified one attribute of human clusters as superorganisms.
Such a city was ideal for shaking off any potential tails.
Soon arriving at the hotel, I changed clothes, switched vehicles, toured the city, and headed back to the airport.
"How's your son doing?"
I asked, and Krut replied with his unchanging smile.
"Of course, Bapak. Thanks to the house you built, we're living without any shortages. As a father, I feel no shame. Allow me to express my gratitude once more on this occasion."
"Regrettable I couldn't attend the wedding."
"What are you saying? I'm always grateful to you."
In the Indonesian traditions cherished by the Sultana, everyone had a status and role. When we first met, Krut was just a common, disposable contact. But from the moment I forged ties with the Sultana, Krut became the intermediary sustaining that relationship—and the relationship itself—gaining a new status and role.
Thus, bypassing Krut in dealings with the Sultana would be a public insult and humiliation to him. He'd face covert finger-pointing from his entire community.
Foreign crime bosses, accustomed to Western contractual relations, struggled to grasp this sentiment. Or rather, they never bothered to. Once contact was made, the intermediary's role ended. Why bother with a middleman when direct lines to the client were possible?
That was the clear limit to their gaining the Sultana's favor.
Crime bosses are weak on this front.
Ignorance of local culture always hindered business. Crime lords, with minds filled only with profit, assumed everyone operated like them.
Sensing Chandra Kirana's 'old-school' nature from our first meeting, I acted differently. Grasping local traditions and customs, I put them into practice, satisfying the self-proclaimed Sultana old-timer. Otherwise, she'd never call me friend—just treat me as an ignorant outsider forever.
"If you need urgent help, let me know anytime. I've instructed my men to provide maximum convenience."
Elevating the status of someone who is the relationship benefited me too. Krut responded with a quiet smile.
Afterward, I asked about the Sultana's recent situation—any changes? Krut was sparing with words, saying nothing major had changed.
At least she hasn't been swept up in superstition and gripped by madness.
I hadn't expected details. Tradition dictated underlings shouldn't casually speak of superiors. I was merely curious if the age of magic had altered people.
Indonesia, Islamic on the surface but deeply colored by Hinduism and primitive animism, required preemptive caution here. Krut's statement lacked firm basis alone, but as an underling gauging the upper echelons—and with no special reports from subordinates who'd negotiated deals—he seemed reliable enough.
At the airport, I bought a copy of the English-language The Jakarta Post from a newsstand. Nothing beat local media for gauging the atmosphere. In a country where one in two lacked smartphones, Indonesian newspapers weren't relics of a dying era—they thrived, substantial and robust. The scent of ink on paper brought a rare sense of stability. Lately, printed words had become scarce...
In truth, most of the massacre scenes were staged by the power of a dead puppeteer. I could tell from the photos alone that the 'unarmed civilians' were corpse puppets. But the magic-ignorant couldn't discern it, dooming China to deeper diplomatic isolation. Neighboring anti-China—or fear-of-China—sentiments and humanitarian outrage boiled over. What horrors awaited if such a nation seized hegemony? Even pro-China factions struggled to speak.
Taking half-rest during the wait, I immersed myself in the print. Since magic's return, newspapers worldwide had thickened uniformly—news and issues exploding across fields. A second golden age for professional journalism.
Even expanded, major stories aside, papers covered distinct topics.
Halfway through, Suyeon approached to draw my attention.
"Hyungnim."
"Time already?"
"No. Something else."
Mindful of Krut's nearby ears, Suyeon whispered within earshot.
"Interim report from HQ IT team on that USB."
That USB was the killer drive I'd personally recovered from the Jiuyang corvette's bridge—British tech that turned PLA patrol ships and gear in the Zhujiang estuary into sitting ducks, nearly killing me via antiship missile trap.
Even with superior resources, analyzing a nation-state malware from Britain was no easy task. Pulling something reportable already warranted praise.
I circulated mana through my circuit, activating the telekinesis incantation. A weak telekinetic barrier dampened air vibrations, enveloping Suyeon and me in a sphere.
"Soundproof field up. Speak freely. Anything good?"
"Yes. They found a Windows OS zero-day vulnerability."
A zero-day was a security flaw unknown even to the vendor—known only to attackers, leaving defenders zero prep time.
One in hand was a reliable weapon: unconditional access to any target system, reusable indefinitely if traces were cleaned. The universal key every hacker group and intel agency craved.
"Excellent. Very excellent."
I nodded and asked, "More to come?"
"Yes."
"Relay: performance bonuses for every usable find. For this one... execute 100 million per team member."
"Understood."
"Initial finder gets special commendation later. Gather all discoverers when analysis ends. I'll do it personally."
"I'll pass it on."
If they unearthed more zero-days soon, one could make a fine post-Lunar New Year promotion gift for Gao Xusen. Not just to advance my communist noble ally, but to solidify his belief that my freedom in core business benefited him too.