Free After the Apocalypse by Maureen F. McHugh Page B

thing. That’s illegal.”
    “Sure,” Baiyue said. “Like anybody cares.”
    “Could you expose corruption?” Jieling asked.
    Mr. Wei shrugged, at least as much as he could in the pillowcase. “Maybe. But they would just pay bribes to locals, and it would all go away.”
    All three of them sighed.
    “Except,” Mr. Wei said, sitting up a little straighter. “The Americans. They are always getting upset about that sort of thing. Last year there was a corporation, the Shanghai Six. The Americans did a documentary on them, and then Western companies would not do business. If they got information from us about what New Life is doing …”
    “Who else is going to buy bio-batteries?” Baiyue said. “The company would be in big trouble!”
    “Beijing can threaten a big exposé, tell the New York Times newspaper!” Mr. Wei said, getting excited. “My Beijing supervisor will love that! He loves media!”
    “Then you can have a big show trial,” Jieling said.
    Mr. Wei was nodding.
    “But what is in it for us?” Baiyue said.
    “When there’s a trial, they’ll have to cancel your debt!” Mr. Wei said. “Even pay you a big fine!”
    “If I call the floor auntie and say I caught a corporate spy, they’ll give me a big bonus,” Baiyue said.
    “Don’t you care about the other workers?” Mr. Wei asked.
    Jieling and Baiyue looked at each other and shrugged. Did they? “What are they going to do to you, anyway?” Jieling said. “You can still do big exposé. But that way we don’t have to wait.”
    “Look,” he said, “you let me go, and I’ll let you keep my money.”
    Someone rattled the door handle.
    “Please,” Mr. Wei whispered. “You can be heroes for your fellow workers, even though they’ll never know it.”
    Jieling stuck the money in her pocket. Then she took the papers, too.
    “You can’t take those,” he said.
    “Yes I can,” she said. “If after six months, there is no big corruption scandal? We can let everyone know how a government secret agent was outsmarted by two factory girls.”
    “Six months!” he said. “That’s not long enough!”
    “It better be,” Jieling said.
    Outside the door, Taohua called, “Jieling? Are you in there? Something is wrong with the door!”
    “Just a minute,” Jieling called. “I had trouble with it when I came home.” To Mr. Wei she whispered sternly, “Don’t you try anything. If you do, we’ll scream our heads off, and everybody will come running.” She and Baiyue shimmied the pillowcase off of Mr. Wei’s head. He started to stand up and jerked the boom box, which clattered across the floor. “Wait!” she hissed and untied him.
    Taohua called through the door, “What’s that?”
    “Hold on!” Jieling called.
    Baiyue helped Mr. Wei stand up. Mr. Wei climbed onto the desk and then grabbed a line hanging outside. He stopped a moment as if trying to think of something to say.
    “‘A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery,’” Jieling said. It had been her father’s favorite quote from Chairman Mao. “‘… it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act by which one class overthrows another.’”
    Mr. Wei looked as if he might cry, and not because he was moved by patriotism. He stepped back and disappeared. Jieling and Baiyue looked out the window. He did go down the wall just like a secret agent from a movie, but it was only two stories. There was still the big footprint in the middle of Taohua’s magazine, and the room looked as if it had been hit by a storm.
    “They’re going to think you had a boyfriend,” Baiyue whispered to Jieling.
    “Yeah,” Jieling said, pulling the chair out from under the door handle. “And they’re going to think he’s rich.”

    It was Sunday, and Jieling and Baiyue were sitting on the beach. Jieling’s cell phone rang, a little