THE CITIZEN

I leave the office for lunch early, avoiding the gaze of the office women, each of them bound to conspiracy with Robert Sebastian Cheong, whom will no doubt receive news of my transgression. 

The gate to the Toa Payoh Seu Teck Sean Tong looms over me as I climb up the flight of stairs to enter the temple. It immediately strikes me that the decision to make this a meeting place is a stroke of genius. A temple in the middle of a busy intersection, connected to beliefs which the ruling class, consisting mainly of Christians, have long since abandoned or, even better, looked down upon. Even as an instrument of control, Taoism has long ceased to be the chosen opiate for the government, now that the cult of Lee Kuan Yew has long taken over. The temple, hidden in plain sight, open to all eyes that would care to look, invisible to those drinking from the fountain of economic power. 

Tan Vee Bun is standing at the top of the stairs. We size each other up. I’m in my office clothes, sweat stains on my armpits and my back. Tan Vee Bun, relatively dignified, in a simple polo tee, jeans, and boat shoes. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses. To my left, our vantage point allows us to watch the traffic rush in from the CTE via Lorong 6, to split at the T-junction in front of the temple, continuing on Lorong 6 on the right, or switching to Lorong 1 on the left. A slight breeze is blowing, and inexplicably, the air smells slightly different -- with none of the oil, soot and decomposition hanging close to the ground. Up here, it’s the smell of stone baking in afternoon sunlight. The smell of forgotten history. 

He motions for me to follow him, as he leads me across the courtyard and into the temple, where a flight of stairs hidden behind a giant gong leads us down to a narrow passageway flanked by multiple rooms separated by plywood screens, each holding a separate meeting of people. Further down the hallway, which begins to split, and split again, into a labyrinth, the air becomes more fragrant, and the fragrant smell of Traditional Chinese Medicine mixes with the increasing humidity of the warren of rooms. Finally, he stops at a metal door, knocks five times, and bids me to enter. 

Inside the room is an abnormally tall man and a rather short woman. “Sir, this is Li Jia Sen,” says Tan Vee Bun, in a different, higher voice than normal. 

“Oh please, no need to call me ‘Sir’”, says the man with a disarming smile of embarrassment. He turns to me, “Have a seat, Jia Sen.”

“You must forgive me. Our movement requires the utmost secrecy. Which means we all have codenames. You already know Tan Vee Bun. Myself, I choose to be known as Jack, Jack Dawson. And my associate -” he gestures to the woman sitting next to him.

“Rose, Rose DeWitt” says the woman, “Vee Bun has already briefed you.”

She gives me half a second to think before she continues, her words shooting out like bullets from a machine gun, “It’s true. The government wants to continue the cult of Lee Kuan Yew, via the actual re-creation of Lee Kuan Yew himself. Our sources placed in the Ministry of Defence have come across documents that have identified you as a vector of genetic singularity.”

“The what?”

“Since the 1970s, the government has been collecting genetic data on all the children born, in the full knowledge that one day, Lee Kuan Yew will pass on. It was imperative that they had a succession plan, preferably with Lee Kuan Yew himself at the helm. But genetics is a mess. And Singapore is too small a country to find a genetic match. They needed to wait for years for the accumulated population to grow, to boost the probability of success through pure numbers and statistical power. And today they have found their match.”

Rose leans in close. Her nails are painted sky blue. 

“Obviously, they already have his DNA. But it needs to bond with the fresh genetic material of an existing zygote. Sources tell me they already have the egg, and are about to capture the sperm -- you.”

“I don’t understand. You only need the egg for cloning. My sperm isn’t required at -”

Rose interrupts me, “Listen to me, Jia Sen. This isn’t just cloning. This is reincarnation. They need Lee Kuan Yew’s soul to exist in the clone, not just his genetics.”

Finally, I think to myself, proof that the PAP, the most pragmatic and forward thinking and data driven of all governments, believes in the existence of a soul. I start to wonder if there have been previous attempts at cloning, failed Lee Kuan Yews shambling around Singapore, all the drive and determination and cruelty and vision, but none of my intelligence. 

“Tan Vee Bun, so far, has been protecting you,” Rose continues, “but even he cannot hold off the agents of the government for long.”

“We need you to take an active role in your own protection. To cooperate with Vee Bun in his efforts. You will inform him of your movements, of your location. As long as he has a good knowledge of your position, he will be able to fend off the agents of the state. And you will arm yourself. Vee Bun will show you your weapons later on. But more importantly,” Rose pauses for effect, “we have a proposition.”

Rose abruptly turns to Jack, who responds in a laconic drawl, entirely the opposite of Rose’s brusque manner, “We want you to join us.”

“You are the reincarnation of Lee Kuan Yew” says Jack, his long wrinkled fingers closing around knuckles protruding like edamame beans, “and you have the power to save this country from itself.” 

Everything suddenly comes together. The knowledge, the drive, the clairvoyance, the perspicacity. The heightened attention from the police, the eyes -- glass, mechanical, organic -- watching me from government corners and from the resistance, the premonitions of revolution, Tan Vee Bun behind the dumpsters with the binoculars, cruising round the neighbourhood in a shared taxi... Within me, the cold logic, the determination, the self-possession, the ruthlessness, the fire and grit, that voice, low and seductive, loud and punchy like the realities of our chosen regime of economics, of gravity and taxes, of water and sunshine, coursing through my veins, building up within my muscles, pumping my heart, flaring my nostrils and invigorating my head... him, the founding father. Limpeh. Him. 

I say yes.