Before the “Wu Han Palace” stele, Kikuchi Kohei told them in Japanese to follow him in learning the pronunciation of eight Chinese characters.
Japanese language aptitude is not outstanding, evident from their everyday English and their attempts at the Chinese phrase “Those who know the times are heroes”. So the group racked their brains to learn these eight characters, taking a full twenty minutes.
Wu Paulo was patient.
He stood with hands clasped behind his back on the pedestal before the stele, looking down imperiously as they practised in small groups. Kikuchi Kohei dashed among them, constantly correcting pronunciations.
At one moment, Wu Paulo suddenly understood what kind of life Wu Fiona had lived these past centuries. She was an empress with tens or even hundreds of thousands attending her! And she had held that throne for centuries!
If he had the chance to live as freely as her for a few centuries, how wonderful that would be.
In temperatures over minus fifty degrees, Kikuchi Kohei ran until sweat beaded on his forehead. The sweat froze on his eyelashes in the cold wind, eventually forming two thick icy brows.
He rushed to Wu Paulo, knelt on one knee, and reported like a Qing dynasty servant, “Reporting to Guanghan Zhenren, all members of Showa Station are ready!”
Wu Paulo frowned and demanded, “Say that again. What station?!”
Only then did Kikuchi Kohei notice the three characters on the stele behind Wu Paulo. He quickly corrected himself, “Reporting to Guanghan Zhenren, all members of Wu Han Palace are ready!”
Wu Paulo nodded in satisfaction and said coldly, “Since you are ready, begin!”
Kikuchi Kohei turned like a symphony conductor, arms sweeping out. The crowd shouted with strange accents and fervent enthusiasm, “Zai xia can jian gong han zhen ren!”
Their passionate shout sent white breath plumes rising together, forming an impressive cloud.
Wu Paulo was momentarily stunned, thinking he had misheard. He was Guanghan Zhenren, yet these Japanese had somehow turned it into Gong Han Zhenren?
He first suspected deliberate insubordination, but then realised it impossible. With psychological suggestions, they would strip naked in minus fifty degrees without half a second’s hesitation if he ordered it. This was clearly a language issue.
So he said darkly to Kikuchi Kohei, “From today, teach them Chinese for six hours daily. Each person sleeps only three hours!”
Kikuchi Kohei declared loudly, “This subordinate obeys!”
At that moment, over ten thousand kilometres away, Japan’s Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology remained unaware that both research teams and the crew of their sole heavy icebreaker had become Wu Paulo’s lackeys.
Since learning the vessel had safely reached Antarctica, they paid little further attention, assuming the routine tasks of personnel and supply handover would proceed smoothly.
Three days later, when the team members’ Chinese had noticeably improved, the ministry received a message from the vessel.
The research vessel had suffered a mechanical failure requiring on-site repairs before return voyage could commence.
The responsible officials were puzzled. A brand-new vessel, and it broke down upon reaching Antarctica? Minor failures usually did not halt navigation; repairs could occur en route. Now it could not move at all, needing repairs in Antarctica.
They immediately contacted the vessel, voicing their greatest concern, “Can you return before the coastline freezes beyond ice-breaking limits?”
Captain, under Matsushita Heikichi’s direction, replied, “Unpredictable. Please prepare for the possibility that the vessel cannot return this winter.”
The ministry erupted in chaos.
Stranding dozens of people and a ship in Antarctica was not dangerous; supplies on ship and station were ample, sufficient until Antarctic summer.
But the key issue was face. Who could afford such embarrassment?
The vessel’s departure had drawn some attention from polar enthusiasts and team families. Failure to return would shame the ministry domestically, and internationally, the entire Japanese scientific community.
This was not unfounded worry; there was precedent. Recently, two American astronauts, due to Starliner failure, extended an eight-day mission to 286 days in space. Images of one emaciated woman shocked the world, nearly exhausting NASA’s credibility. First American astronauts stranded in space, then Japanese researchers in Antarctica. If word spread, the ministry would drink deeply from that cup.
Though Japan no longer favoured the tradition of first-responsible-person seppuku, suicide remained. For instance, after Fukushima, responsible official Sato Yasuhiro took his life in atonement.
A major polar research mishap causing international scandal would exert pressure, if not as great as Sato’s, at least seventy or eighty percent. Few could withstand such public opinion.
Thus, the responsible official convened a classified meeting. After discussion, they decided to request the team and crew inform families of a secret research mission requiring extended stay, with no return soon. They also asked unified external messaging, omitting any mention of failure.
To soothe emotions and ensure full cooperation, they offered tenfold daily salary: one extra day in Antarctica meant ten days’ extra pay, until return.
The team and crew, fully loyal to Wu Paulo, had lost interest in money. At his command, they agreed immediately and without exception.
Their swift, unanimous agreement moved ministry higher-ups to tears several times. They believed their researchers’ dedication was world-class. Relieved, they announced publicly Japan’s largest and longest Antarctic winter expedition ever, leading domestic netizens to assume some undisclosed major discovery, stirring patriotic fervour online.
Little did they know, it was all the doing of Wu Paulo, this Guanghan Zhenren.
