Xia Jianhua writes first
The room they’ve brought you to is all steel and grey paint, humming with machines you have no words for. The old man who walks in is lean and upright, in a pressed navy uniform with rows of ribbons, grey at the temples, carrying two cups of hot tea. He sets one in front of you and sits down across the table like a guest.
“Drink. You were in the water for some time.” His voice is level and unhurried. Behind him, a younger officer holds a notebook and a small device with a blinking light.
“My name is Xia Jianhua. I command this fleet.” He lets that sit, watching your face as you take in the word. “Three days ago we were somewhere else entirely. Now the stars are wrong, and my pilots are reporting things with wings that are not aircraft.”
He folds his hands on the table.
“So I’d like to ask you some simple questions, and I would be grateful for honest answers. What is this sea called, who rules its coast, and should we expect them to be friendly?”