“It was my dream sometimes," spoke June one night before we slept, or in the middle of the night I can’t remember. Spoke to me, or to herself I was not sure, and she didn’t seem to care. It was one of the nights when Mr. Sony was still with us.
“My dream….I sit on a small boat, dark inside, alone. I know it is daytime, but it doesn’t look sunny outside. I don’t see any shadow of myself, or the boat I am on. Alone. It would be still dark even there is sunshine, as my small boat is covered by an arch built of wood, rusty sticks and foam boards. The arch completely shield me from every view outside except my frontview and rearview. What should be cracks are filled by bedding cloth. It’s a tunnel of which I am in the middle. Alone. No, I am not alone, as I can see tens and tens of, hundreds and hundreds of, small boats like the one I am in, when I look at my front and my back, through that arh tunnel. Tens and tens of, hundreds and hundreds of, small boats moving in synchronous rhythm in the black sea, ups and downs with the rotary waves. Like pulse. Expand this inch of vein, contract the next. Complete and complementing contradiction in every beat. Moving in synchronous speed, and direction, like there is a chain linking the boats that submerges. I don’t know the direction, nor where the boat is heading for. I don’t know if someone on one of those sychronising boats know where we are going. There is no way my voice can reach even the boats next to mine even at the limit of my shouting. They are too far away. Just floating in synchronous ups and downs. Ups and downs, ups and downs, tens and tens of, hundreds and hundreds of boats, from infinity to infinity. And then I wake up, lying here."
Mr Sony was gone finally. Took one of the dinghies on our islets and gone. Terrorists are always in motion, Mr Sony said, like working bees always move back and forth, always ready to take risk, to protect something fragile, inert, but so divine that defines a collective fate of all working bees. What terror you are going to pose to our government, I asked, as I did not ever find out any weapon or accomplice of his. Maybe his Sony Linear PCM was his weapon, I thought at the time, to explode something. But I was proven wrong right away, as he left it with us. And he said he was going to meet his acomplices. Where, I asked. It was my last question to him, which made him give me the last indoctrination speech. He said, “my accomplices are right at the heart of where everything started 50 years ago. The Island, where all my accomplices are jailed and die. They do not have alternative but get killed. But like working bees, it is exactly the time they pose the most terror. You know why the Island becomes one of the most luxurious forests in the region? It’s because the soil is the most fertile in the world. Working bees like us are the continuous fertilizers. The Government in the North has never stopped hunting Joshuas since the Event, taking us to the IFC where we embrace the worst of our fate. The most advanced torture and interrogation in human civilization, perfected by complete automation and Artificial Intelligence, to make sure we give out the best of our information about our comrades. And we then get killed for sure, and dropped on the forest 200m below. The parts of bodies, the flesh and blood, the organs, the bones, the calcium, the nitrate, the carbon. Digested by the largest worms and flies you can’t even imagine. And defecated to be part of the base. Those worms and flies are not easy to be found, as there live also the most efficient predatory frogs, and the most efficient bats and fowls which feed on them in turn. At last, you don’t see anything macabre, but the wood, the shrubs, the epiphytes, the leech and moses, the most embellished ecosystem in the world. But it is the best time of us as well. Joshuas all write diaries of what we believe, and what we saw. The materials we use as ink and paper are neither biodegradable or excretable, so we can tear what we wrote into pieces and put in our digestive system where they stay for life. When we are dropped on the forest, we believe some of our comrades will be swift enough to stealth on the Island and disinter the pieces of diary we wrote before our bodies completely decompose. The belief, the truth, the what happened 50 years ago, are true weapons of us Joshuas; the terror to the leaders here and in the North. In every epoch in human history, true terrorists are never those who hold spears, or swords, or bows, or bombs. True terrorists are those who believe in truth, and hold the truth. Isiah, Jesus, Socrates, Copernicus, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, now the Joshuas, or a nickname I rather, evidence hunters. Now I’m going to hunt for the pieces, to be a working bee again."
Then gone. June and I sitting on that table next to the window, to catch the last glimpse of the dinghy he stole. The two lines of waves getting farther and farther apart from the motor of the dinghy, farther and farther apart from us. June and I were linked together again by that earphone line, converging at that black box, playing this tune.