The sub-basement cell was no longer just a cage; it was becoming a study. The oppressive emptiness had been filled. In one corner stood a small, sturdy wooden desk and a comfortable, high-backed chair. Corporal Riley was no longer chained to the wall during the day. His shackles, which had become a grim extension of his own body, now lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, a symbol of a freedom that felt profoundly false.
He sat at the desk, a thick, leather-bound book open before him. A small stack of other English novels—Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island—sat neatly at his elbow. A half-eaten meal of savory noodles and steamed vegetables, still warm, was on a tray beside him. These physical comforts, the sugar that coated the pill of his confinement, were a stark and constant contrast to the psychological torment that gnawed at his soul. He tried to lose himself in the story of Edmond Dantès, but his eyes kept flicking across the room to the other side of the cell.
Captain Stone remained chained. He refused the books, the better food, the small comforts. He subsisted on the standard prisoner's fare of watery rice and weak tea, a self-imposed penance and a silent, damning judgment upon his subordinate. He did not speak to Riley. He did not even look at him. But Riley felt his captain's contempt like a physical force, a silent, burning gaze that followed his every move, branding him a traitor with every page he turned, every bite he ate. The silence between them was no longer an absence of sound; it was a wall of shame.
The cell door hissed open, and Madame Song entered. Her presence was as poised and unreadable as ever. She inclined her head politely toward Riley. "The Minister requests your presence, Corporal."
Riley stood, his heart giving a familiar, nervous lurch. He followed her out of the cell, pointedly ignoring the burning weight of his captain's silent stare on his back. He was led not to a barren, featureless interrogation room, but up a flight of stairs to a comfortable, wood-paneled office. The air smelled of sandalwood and expensive ink. A plush Persian rug covered the floor, and through a large window, Riley could see a sliver of the bustling Tianjin sky. It was the first natural light he had seen in weeks.
Yuan Shikai sat behind a large, imposing desk, but he rose as they entered, the picture of a gracious host. He gestured for Riley to take a seat in a padded leather armchair. Madame Song poured them both cups of fragrant, steaming tea. The atmosphere was so utterly removed from the violence and desperation of his capture that it felt surreal, a waking dream.
"Corporal," Yuan began, his voice smooth and welcoming. "I hope your new accommodations are more to your liking. A sharp mind requires stimulation. I trust you are enjoying the novels?"
Riley mumbled a tense, one-word affirmative.
"Good, good," Yuan said, smiling. "As I said, I value your perspective. Practical knowledge is often more valuable than the reports of spies. I am preparing a comprehensive report for His Majesty on the industrial capacity of the West. It is vital that our future trade policies are well-informed. Let us start with something simple. Railroads."
He unrolled a large, colored map of the United States across his desk. It wasn't a military map. It was a commercial one, its surface a tangled web of rail lines, with the logos of the great railroad companies printed in the margins.
"My intelligence reports, which are dry and full of statistics, tell me that your Pennsylvania Railroad is the largest by tonnage and capital," Yuan said, tapping a thick blue line on the map. "But it was your Union Pacific that built the great transcontinental line, a feat of engineering that our own builders admire greatly. In your opinion, Corporal—not as a soldier, but as an American who has traveled on them—which is more… efficient? Which has better management? Which is more ruthless in its expansion and its dealings with its workers?"
Riley stared at the map of his homeland, a painful lump forming in his throat. He hesitated. This felt different from their last conversation. It felt more specific, more pointed. But what harm could it do? He wasn't giving away military codes or troop positions. He was just talking about trains. It was the kind of conversation he might have with his father back on the farm.
So he began to talk. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as he found his footing. He spoke of what any ordinary American would know. He described the Pennsylvania Railroad's reputation for safety and reliability, the pride people took in its punctuality, but he also recounted the stories he'd heard of its brutal history with union organizers, the infamous Pinkerton guards. He spoke of the Union Pacific with a kind of mythic awe—the company that had tamed the West—but he also knew of its reputation for legendary land grabs, its deep and often corrupt political connections in Washington.
He was just a corporal from Ohio, but his practical, ground-level knowledge, the kind gleaned from newspapers, barroom conversations, and common lore, was something Yuan's spies in their fine suits could never obtain. It was authentic. It was real. For an hour, he talked, and Yuan listened intently, nodding and asking insightful follow-up questions, making him feel like a valued consultant.
Finally, Yuan rolled up the map, a satisfied look on his face. "Excellent, Corporal. A most useful and nuanced perspective. You have been a great help."
He nodded to Madame Song, who stepped forward to escort Riley back to his cell. As they reached the doorway, Yuan made a seemingly off-the-cuff remark to his aide, his voice raised just enough to ensure Riley would hear every word.
"Madame Song, prepare a new file based on the Corporal's invaluable insights. Title it 'Project Atlas.' I want you to cross-reference the logistical vulnerabilities of the Union Pacific line—particularly through the Rocky Mountains—with our list of disgruntled labor leaders and radical union organizers in the American West. An empire's longest supply line is often its most fragile link. A well-placed strike could paralyze half their country for weeks."
Riley froze in the doorway, his blood turning to ice. A wave of nausea washed over him.
He realized with dawning, sickening horror what had just happened. This was never a "business consultation." This was not about future trade policies. He had just spent an hour providing foundational intelligence for a meticulously crafted plan to actively sabotage the American economy from within. He had pointed out the weak points. He had identified the key players. He had, with his own words, helped his enemy target his country's most vital infrastructure.
He turned slowly, his face ashen, and looked back at Yuan. The Minister gave him a slow, knowing smile. It was not a cruel smile. It was a smile of ownership.
He was trapped. He was no longer just a prisoner. He was now a collaborator, an active participant, whether he had intended to be or not. There was no going back.
As Madame Song gently but firmly guided him from the room, he heard Yuan's final words to her. "The boy is broken. He will be a most useful tool."
Later, alone in his office, Yuan Shikai looked at the notes Madame Song had compiled. Just then, an aide entered with a coded dispatch from their agent inside the palace.
"A report from the Forbidden City, Minister," the aide said. "His Majesty has ordered Spymaster Shen Ke to place the new physicist from America, Dr. Chen, under full surveillance. The Emperor suspects she is an American spy."
Yuan's eyes narrowed. The Emperor was growing more paranoid by the day. Meng Tian, his rival, was the celebrated hero of the south, playing his games of soft power. And he, Yuan Shikai, the sidelined butcher, now possessed a unique asset that no one else in the entire Empire knew about. A living, breathing American intelligence source.
He realized with a sudden, thrilling clarity that Corporal Riley wasn't just a tool for attacking America. He was a powerful card to be played in the silent, deadly power struggle of the Qing court itself. A secret weapon to be held in reserve, for just the right moment.