"Of course they do. Why else would they do it?"
"Marriage and family is a commitment to someone. If you can't be absolute in your commitment, you shouldn't make it. I'm a soldier. I'm always away. That would be hard on a marriage."
"So you'll never marry?"
"One day, I hope. After I'm a soldier."
"Would you ever consider having a son before you were married?"
Mazer saw where this was going. When he spoke his voice was kind and quiet. "You can't be my son, Bingwen."
"But I'd work hard," said Bingwen. "And I'd obey. You wouldn't have to scold me or punish me because I would always listen. I wouldn't even complain when you had to go off somewhere on assignment. I could take care of myself. I could cook my own meals. I can cook other things besides rice and bamboo, you know. I can cook meats and vegetables. I could cook for you, too."
Mazer stopped and knelt in front of the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. "If I have a son one day, Bingwen, I hope he's as brave and smart and strong as you. But China is your home, and New Zealand is mine."
"China was my home. But it's a new China now, one that's as strange to me as it is to you. I don't belong here any more than you do."
He's like me, thought Mazer. Displaced,
alone, coping with a new culture, having lost the one he knew. It was exactly how Mazer felt as a boy when his mother died. She had angered her Maori family by marrying an Englishman. They were pure Maoris, and they saw Father as an intruder, stealing their daughter from her heritage. So they expelled her from the tribe.
Later, when Mazer was born, Mother repented by immersing Mazer in the Maori culture. She still loved Father--she would never leave him--but she wanted Mazer raised as she had been. So she plunged him into the culture and taught him the language, dances, and songs. She fed him Maori food, instilled in him the warrior spirit. She made him super Maori.
Then she died when he was ten. And now there was no one to champion Mazer's inclusion in the group. Father, after having been excluded for all those years, certainly wasn't going to do it. Instead, he took Mazer back to England and tried to erase all the Maori in him. Father was the scion of a noble family, and he would make Mazer a proper Englishman with studies in computers and science. Suddenly Mazer went from a fishing/taro-planting/pig-butchering life full of song and story to a life of high-tech computers in British boarding schools.
He learned to adapt. He was never accepted by the pure Brits--they called him a wog and excluded him. But he became more British than they were. He learned every courtesy of British society. He mastered the accent. He became extremely articulate. He consumed every subject he studied. He made himself an expert in two cultures ... even though he was never really a citizen of either.
Bingwen faced the same issue. He was a primitive farm child who had crossed over and immersed himself in a different culture, learning English, learning computers, soaking up as much as he could. He had passed back and forth between worlds as Mazer did.
"The world will always change, Bingwen," said Mazer. "You become whoever you need to be to fit it."
"So I'm never really a person at all then. I'm just whatever is convenient to the world around me? That's not who I want to be. That's not me."
"That's not who you are, Bingwen. But that's how you survive. You've been doing it all your life already. It doesn't change who you are. You still get to decide who that is. You get to choose the best of everything. The best of China, the best of what you've learned, the best of your parents. That is still your choice, regardless of what the world is doing, whether this is the China you know or not. You still decide who you are."
"Except I can't decide to be your son."
"No, but you don't have to be my son to mean something to me. You can--"
He stopped. He had heard something. Voices perhaps. Not too distant. He put a finger to his lips, and Bingwen nodded that he understood.
They crept forward, silent as shadows, until they reached the edge of the jungle, just a few meters away. A wide clearing opened before them in the darkness, and far out in the center of it, two hundred meters away, a red dot of firelight flickered. There were shapes moving around the fire, though at this distance it was impossible to see how many people there were or if they were friendly or not. Mazer and Bingwen crouched at the edge of the jungle and listened. Whoever they were they weren't very smart to have built a fire in such an open space. They were practically calling the Formics to their position.
Mazer had hoped to find a group or family that Bingwen could go with, but it wouldn't be this lot. They were reckless and loud and likely to get Bingwen killed. The smart thing to do would be to move on and stay clear of them. Let the Formics find them. Not our problem.
But Mazer was desperate for information. He knew nothing about the Formics' position or movements. He might be walking Bingwen straight toward a Formic stronghold. It was a risk to talk to whoever was out there, but it was a risk Mazer knew he had to take.
For a moment he considered ordering Bingwen to stay behind while he advanced and approached the fire, but he didn't feel comfortable leaving Bingwen alone, and he doubted Bingwen would like the idea either. "Stay close," said Mazer. "And step as quietly as you can until we're certain they're friendly."
They moved toward the light, Mazer leading, sword in hand. When they were halfway across the field Mazer stopped and sniffed at the air.
"What is it?" Bingwen whispered.
"That smell," said Mazer. "It smells like ... lobster."
Bingwen sniffed. "I smell it too."
Mazer tightened his grip on the sword hilt, and they drew closer to camp. Soon the vague shapes in the firelight took form. There were five men and one woman, all of them crouched on the ground, huddled around something, the fire behind them. There was a spit above the flames with some creature roasting on it. As Mazer drew closer he saw that the cooked creature was the bottom half of a Formic. The people were eating the top half, which they had pulled off the spit and placed on the ground, surrounding it like a pack of scavengers.