The Heart of the Matter [Halloween 2024]

[Fulgistan]

“Alright, that should do.”

Firing off the last in a succession of emails that had obliterated his afternoon appointments, Secretary for Culture Bayanchur Tekin pushed his chair back and grabbed his messenger tote, ready to leave the Bureau for Culture offices early for once. It was a fine autumn day in Bogd Gioro, the rain-clouds hanging grey and gravid over the sandstone office blocs. A perfect day for a night in. No more meetings and a full four back issues of Paran Desert Fighter Ace Go!!! to read through; he'd been saving them all summer. The phone rang.

“Balls.”

“Bayanchur?” Tomur Almas' voice said on the other end of the line. “I was looking at the Central Committee digital calendar and I saw you have your afternoon free. I was hoping you could look into something for me.”

“Comrade Almas, I, uh, under normal circumstances you know I'm always happy to do whatever you require of me, but lately things have been chaos over here at the Bureau. We have the, uh--”

Bayanchur stuck the receiver into the crook of his neck to look over his shoulder at the wall calendar.

“Y'know, we've got the Qiu An Harvest Festival and Livestock Fair coming up. And of course, as you know, I'll be judging the nanny goat competition this year. So that, y'know, that's taken up quite a bit of my time, here. Quite a bit on my plate. Is there any chance one of the other numerous ministers and secretaries could look into this matter for you?”

“Sorry, Bayanchur. Hate to be a drag, but it's important, and I need someone who's discrete. It'll only take you an hour or so.”

Tekin mouthed curses all through Almas' response, snapping right back into his subservient mode to issue his own.

“Happy to, comrade. What is it that you need?”

“The past few months, I've noticed some strange memoranda coming across my desk. They're seemingly unrelated, and as far as I can make out, complete nonsense in the form of what seems to be advice. All of them have been from various personnel in the Sub-Bureau of Geopolitical Rectification. Job titles, all low-to-middling, but no names. It's all extremely odd. No one seems to know how the memos got into my in box, either.”

“Sub-Bureau of Geopol… I've never heard of them in my life, and I was a provincial finalist in my school civics bee.”

“Nor I, Bayanchur. That, among other things, is what's so damn strange about all this. There's an address listed on these letters. I want you to investigate, in person.”

Tekin raised his eyebrows, his curiosity piquing despite his irritation.

“A Bogd Gioro address?”

“Yeah… on Dalian Road, in the Youkou neighborhood. 358.”

“Alright, I'll head over. Is this something that you need a report on by end of day, or…?”

“Bayanchur, come on. You're a national official, let's see some hustle.”

“Yep, yep. I'll have it on your desk by tonight. In the meantime, can you send me these memos you've been getting?”

“Sure, sure. Hang around the fax machine a minute, and they'll be right through.”

“Of course, Comrade General Secretary. Talk to you soon.”

Bayanchur was speed walking out of the office before he'd even hung up the phone. The fax machine squealed somewhere far away and unimportant. Fresh air. Crowded pedestrian walkway, packed escalator, standing room only on the cross-city tram. Bodies like bullets in the ammo can in cosmoline tunic suits, he thought idly, not like sardines at all, as the tram trundled along and the press of humanity swayed with every curve in the track. Twenty minutes of locomotive-induced mass hypnosis for the second-shift crowd on their way home. Youkou Station was a little run-down; with only one ticket counter and another little place that served hot cornmeal mash and pickled long beans; four tenge. Bayanchur didn't waste time, and anyway it was a little cheap for his taste.

He was puzzled when he reached the place; it looked like a shop for religious statuary, or possibly just garden ornaments. The only person in the dimly-lit, dusty shop, the peeling wallpaper emerald green behind her, was a heavyset aunty with a ruddy complexion and a bald spot. She certainly didn't look friendly.

“Er… is this 358 Dalian Road?”

"S'RIGHT!” She shrieked, her red-stained teeth showing a betel nut habit. She didn't move.

“I'm… I'm looking for the Sub-Bureau of Geopolitical Rectification. Is that at this address…?”

"S'DOWNSTAIRS!” The woman yelled from across the room, pointing to a small plaque on the wall and a concrete stairwell leading down.

“Down… right. Thank you, comrade.”

“Unh.”

Bayanchur descended the stairs. Three flights in all, down rather deep into the Eurth. A nondescript utility door at the bottom, reinforced glass window so yellowed with age and covered in urban detritus he couldn't see what lay beyond, besides a dim orange light. Tekin pulled the handle, and stepped inside.

An old, slight man sat at a desk, his bald pate shining under the strange orange fluorescent lights that illuminated the space within, immaculately waxed ochre travertine glinting officially under their glow. He looked up at the younger man expectantly, cradling his wrinkled hands in front of him.

“Good afternoon, comrade. I'm looking for the Sub-Bureau of Geopolitical Rectification…?”

“This is it, comrade. You're in the right place. The place.”

“Right you are…erm, comrade…?”

“You can call me Nei.”

“Certainly, er, what is your rank or title, comrade Nei?”

“Just 'Nei',” He said dismissively, getting up abruptly and beginning to walk off down the hallway. It was only now, looking down it head-on, that Bayanchur realized he could not see where it ended. It was as if a fog hung about the interior of the Sub-Bureau. Sub-basement is more like, he thought as he followed the old man reluctantly. The orange lights passed by like streetcars as they walked, Bayanchur's loafers squeaking slightly on the flooring and the old man making no sound at all.

“Er, Comrade Nei, you may not be aware, but I have the honor to be Secretary for Culture to our great nation, and--”

“General Secretary Almas has sent you to investigate the memoranda he's received from the Sub-Bureau.” Nei said flatly, his hands now clasped behind his back as he shuffled along, not looking back at Bayanchur. They had passed by dozens of unlabeled doors by now.

“I-- yes, that's right. Can you be so kind as to enlighten me, Comrade, as to who you are and what it is that you're doing here?”

Nei looked back over his shoulder for the first time, and stopped.

“As you wish. But stay close; it's a long walk to get where we're going.”

“How much longer can it be? At this depth, we're surely going to run into a metro tunnel sooner or later.”

The old man chuckled.

“You are much, much deeper, Comrade Secretary, than I think you realize. Follow me.”

The pair set off into the haze of the underground complex, every step taking Bayanchur Tekin closer to a revelation that would shake him to his core.