Chapter 9: The New Society and the Old Society

The online discussions sprawled outward from practical crossing preparations into the grander territory of future governance. Organizational structure, military framework, industry, agriculture, education, the shape of government itself—all of it became fodder for debate. Every day brought fresh updates to the bulletin board, and every registered participant dove into the fray.

Parliamentary democracy or authoritarian rule? Separation of powers or constitutional monarchy? Nationalism or socialism? Everyone fancied themselves the theorist who would architect the New World.

The debates raged with an intensity that bordered on the fanatical. To revise history, to supplant the Ming or preempt the Qing—this was the shared dream. But the question of what kind of world to build in their place proved endlessly contentious. Democracy versus dictatorship, pacifism versus militarism, parliamentary governance versus centralized control—and from these lofty ideological battles, the arguments descended into minutiae: uniform design, mandatory education, what language should be used for military drill commands, even the structure of a peerage system. Nothing was too trivial to fight over. Accusations flew alongside rhetorical cudgels; ideological labels were slapped on opponents in every color of the rainbow.

Through all of this, the Executive Committee maintained a stance of studied neutrality—no participation, no comment. If everyone wanted to argue, let them argue themselves hoarse. Better to have it out now than on the beaches of Hainan. Besides, people revealed their true colors online. The flame wars served as useful intelligence, helping the leadership identify suitable candidates for core positions.

Just how this Executive Committee had come into being, or by what authority it decided who could join, was never made explicit. To modern sensibilities steeped in democratic procedure, this might have seemed strange. But in practice, there was nothing mysterious about it. Throughout the year-long preparation period, the transmigrators had never once held a general assembly or elected anyone to anything—logistically impossible when the membership was in constant flux. Voices that dominated one meeting might vanish by the next; new applicants appeared continuously. Xiao Zishan had spent nearly half a year just trying to compile a stable roster. With everything in such chaos, those who had been managing the day-to-day work—Wen Desi, Xiao Zishan, and Wang Luobin—naturally coalesced into the leadership core.

They were in no hurry to expand their ranks. Though the three came from different backgrounds, they understood one another intuitively on the matters that counted. When impatient members demanded to cross over immediately, the committee's response was unanimous and unequivocal: basic infrastructure wasn't in place; they would have to wait. All three understood the calculus—the more crossing capital they accumulated now, the stronger their positions in whatever power structure emerged on the other side.

Xiao Zishan viewed seniority as an invaluable intangible asset. In organizations like this, tenure often determined voice and prestige. At present, they knew too little about many of the transmigrators. Admitting them too early would grant some people standing disproportionate to their actual capabilities—a liability for future operations.

Wen Desi's reasoning was more pragmatic. There was no shortage of impetuous blowhards in their ranks—skilled at stirring up trouble, useless at accomplishing anything concrete. The best filter was simply time, letting it erode their momentary enthusiasms until only the genuinely committed remained.

Of course, this holding pattern couldn't last forever. The preparations demanded far too much specialized knowledge for three men to handle alone. They needed fresh blood. After a brief meeting, they agreed: cross again immediately, secure sufficient funds, and enter the substantive phase of preparation.

"Our master has given instructions," the steward announced, ushering them into a small courtyard. "When the gentlemen arrive, please change first. The master will be out shortly."

The courtyard was compact but refined, shaded by graceful trees that lent it an air of quiet elegance. On a side table sat several wooden trays arranged with robes, caps, and shoes.

What Wen Desi and his companions did not yet know was that Master Gao had distributed the mirrored compacts as gifts to more than a dozen high officials with whom he regularly conducted business—and the effect had been electric. Glass mirrors were things ordinary people had only heard about; few had ever actually seen one. And these compacts were something else entirely, utterly without precedent. Buyers flooded his shop in an endless stream. Compacts purchased for ten taels resold at fifty—and were still snatched up the moment they appeared.

Master Gao had traded in foreign goods for over twenty years. He had built a considerable enterprise, but never in his career had he caused such a sensation. Over the past fortnight, visiting peers had practically worn a groove in his threshold, all of them burning with the same question: where had the goods come from? These seasoned traders knew perfectly well that no Portuguese, Dutch, or English merchant carried such wares. And besides, it wasn't even their shipping season.

The most plausible explanation was that new overseas merchants had arrived—and Master Gao had captured them for himself. While many of his rivals cursed their own inadequate intelligence networks, suspicious figures had begun appearing around the Gao residence, watching the comings and goings. This put Master Gao on high alert. Though he had Eunuch Yang as his backer, every player in the Guangzhou trade was a force to be reckoned with. He was proceeding with extra caution now; the house-buying errand Wen Desi had entrusted to him was temporarily on hold.

At this juncture, Gao Ju could no longer afford to worry about how suspicious these foreigners might seem. The defining trait of a merchant was the pursuit of profit, and his greater concern was that the Australian merchants were too conspicuous. Hence these arrangements—he wanted no one learning the source of his goods. This monumental fortune had to remain firmly in his own grasp.

Wen Desi and Wang Luobin exchanged a knowing glance; they could guess Master Gao's thinking well enough. But keeping a low profile suited their purposes just fine. They set about changing clothes.

The only problem was that none of them had the slightest idea how Ming-era attire was supposed to be worn. They turned the garments this way and that, utterly baffled. None of them were Hanfu enthusiasts, and after considerable fumbling, they managed something that approximated being dressed. The steward returned to serve tea, took one look at their caps sitting askew and collars twisted at odd angles—a thoroughly disheveled spectacle—and had to summon the maidservants.

Wealthy Guangdong families customarily kept servant girls, and the steward knew these guests were people his master wished to cultivate. He called for quality attendants: two girls of fifteen or sixteen with bright, sparkling eyes and pretty, charming faces. They entered with graceful curtsies and began helping the men out of their poorly donned garments. Director Wen had seen his share of romantic scenes over the years, but having such soft little hands touching and tugging at him while loosening his clothes—even he found himself somewhat overwhelmed. Now this, he thought, is a man's paradise.

Lost in this pleasant reverie, he caught a glimpse of Xiao Zishan wearing the same enraptured expression and couldn't help but chuckle.

"What's this? Are you tempted too?"

"Oh, absolutely." Xiao Zishan thought of his ex-girlfriend and her domineering ways. "This is the life a man was meant to live."

"Exactly!" Wang Luobin burst out with unexpected vehemence. "Modern society represents the complete collapse of ritual and the decay of propriety." He launched into a tirade about his wife—a graduate of the Physical Education department—cataloging her offenses in vivid and exhaustive detail. His grievances poured forth in such abundance that by the time he finished, Xiao Zishan and Wen Desi felt they had become intimately acquainted with the formidable power of Mrs. Wang.

The two attendants with their hair bound in double buns stood demurely to the side, listening to Wang Luobin's impassioned monologue without quite comprehending it. All they could see was his animated face and wildly gesticulating hands—and the cap they had just straightened slipping loose again, now sagging over his forehead. Both girls ducked their heads, biting their lips to suppress their giggles.

Xiao Zishan nudged the still-impassioned Wang Luobin. "Engineer Wang, what do you think of these little maids? Shall we have a word with Master Gao? Take one back with you?"

Wang Luobin shook his head emphatically. "She's a middle-schooler! How could I possibly?"

"So if she were a high-schooler, you could?" Xiao Zishan teased. "You could always raise her first. Give it a few years..."

"A cultivation plan?" Wen Desi interjected. "I'm rather interested myself." He looked the girls over appraisingly. These two were a bit thin and small, perhaps, but fair-skinned with delicate features. With better nutrition, they showed real promise...

While the big bad wolf's eyes roved hungrily over the little white rabbits, the curtain parted and Master Gao strode in. Taking in the scene with a knowing smile, he drew his own silent conclusions. These sea merchants spent years battling wind and waves; once they came ashore, every one of them turned into a ravening ghost for female company. The Dutch and Portuguese were even worse in that regard—they'd take any kind.

But he kept such observations to himself. He merely cupped his hands and offered a formal bow. "Honored guests, have you been well?"

(End of Chapter)