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by Geoffrey Hart
Previously published as: Hart, G. 2019. Outsourced. Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine 77:61-69.
“What the hell is a shunn-junn?”
Malachai looked up from the wooden nutcracker he was repairing, and peered over the top of his magnifying lenses. “Beg pardon?”
Zebediah was clinging to the doorframe as he leaned into the workroom at a perilous angle. He released his hold and staggered into the room. “I said, what the hell is a shunn-junn.”
The older elf thought for a moment. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
Someone cleared her throat. Malachai and Zebediah exchanged glances, and turned to a third elf. “Yes, Sigi?” they echoed.
“It’s a city in China, and despite being spelled S-h-e-n-z-h-e-n, it’s pronounced shunn-junn.”
“China?” they echoed, exchanging glances once more.
“China.” Sigrid put down the child’s shoe she’d been stitching. “It’s what the Chinese call a special economic zone. Deng and his cronies set them up around 1978 as an experiment with a government-sanctioned, centrally controlled capitalism. The goal was to run an experiment to prove that capitalism with a socialist flavour was possible, even desirable. Most economists believe it was the spark that started China’s explosive economic growth in the following years.” She cocked an eyebrow, then looked disappointed when no one applauded.
“Dung?” Zebediah giggled. “Isn’t that a funny sort of name for a leader?”
“It’s how the Chinese pronounce his name in Mandarin.”
Malachai tried to ignore Zebediah, something he was generally very good at, but failed. “So what does Shenzhen have to do with anything?”
Zebediah sighed. “Ruth—you know Ruth, right? The one with the amazing legs that go on for metres and who works in Santa’s private kitchen?—says she overhead Santa and Judah discussing the possibility of moving all our manufacturing to Shenzhen.”
Malachai put down his toy. “You don’t say.”
Sigrid snorted. “I suppose it was inevitable.”
Malachai looked back and forth between the two of them, and finally settled on Sigrid. “Could you possibly be less obscure?”
Sigrid sighed. “Perhaps you’re too young to remember the furore about robot labour? You’re definitely too young to remember the panic over assembly lines.”
“I do remember something about robots, now that you mention it.”
“Precisely.”
Zebediah cleared his throat. “I don’t. What was all that about?”
“As you know, Zeb…” Malachai intoned, then couldn’t help himself and chortled.
Sigrid snorted. “Assembly lines are generally attributed to Henry Ford.” Seeing Zebediah’s blank look, she continued. “The guy who invented mass production of automobiles? Anyway, he’s considered the father of that form of factory automation, but the Chinese were doing it centuries before Europeans, and Adam Smith was already speaking of it by the time of the American revolution.”
The two listeners looked blank, and Sigrid sighed. “The basic notion is that instead of the kind of bespoke handcrafted manufacturing we do, you get a bunch of elfs together in a line. The first elf produces only the legs and arms of the doll, the second elf produces only the body, the third produces only the head, the fourth elf attaches the body parts, the fifth elf only paints the doll, the sixth puts on the clothing…”
“Wait: who creates the clothing?”
“Another assembly line, Zeb. Anyway, the point is, everyone in the assembly line specializes in one task and therefore becomes highly proficient at that task. The end result is much faster throughput.”
“And terminal boredom.”
“Yes, Malachai. And that’s why Europeans started inventing robots to take over the boring, repetitive tasks. Karel Capek was writing about this as early as the turn of the 20th century, but it took quite a few years before the technology advanced sufficiently that they became practical.” She paused and licked her upper lip. “Anyway, the point is, everyone predicted doom when the first assembly lines were invented. I talked Santa out of that one, arguing that handcrafting was still valued.” Her face hardened in a way that made Zebediah take a hasty step backwards. Then it softened again. “I was right, as it happens. Same thing with the robots a few decades later, though in that case, what saved us was one of the few good things to come out of Santa’s MBA. The capital costs were too high and the return on investment was too low.”
The listeners exchanged significant glances.
“Try to keep up! It means that he wasn’t going to earn enough profit to cover the cost of the investment. If you think arctic wolves are fierce, you’ve never worked with investment bankers.” Sigrid shuddered.
“So bringing us back to Shenzhen…?” Malachai prodded.
Sigrid furrowed her brows. “Well, this time we just might have something to worry about. You see, the problem is that the Chinese have—and I’m not exaggerating—millions of unemployed or underemployed workers. They lack our centuries of training, but they learn damnably fast and are willing to work for less than we are. So offshoring our jobs is arguably a more credible threat than the assembly lines and industrial robots ever were.”
Seeing the look on her companions’ faces, she looked to the heavens for patience before continuing. “Offshoring means moving our jobs to another shore—another continent in this case—to take advantage of cheaper labour and lower capital costs. That’s one of the really bad things to come out of Santa’s MBA: globalization.”
“So if it’s true…”
“It’s true. Dung!” Zebediah giggled.
Unperturbed, Malachai continued. “…then what are we going to do about it?”
Sigrid got a distant look on her face. “In point of fact, I talked to Santa about this a few years back when I saw the writing on the wall. Sadly, I might have instead planted the notion in his head.” She shrugged. “Have you ever tried to talk an MBA out of a cherished notion?” She shook her head.
“So we’re screwed?”
“Not necessarily. We’re not the only Elfs in the world, you know. There are these guys in China…” Sigrid’s eyes went distant for a moment. “Yeah: Shanxiao. Anyway, if we want to stop this, you’ll have to go talk to them and get them to fix the problem at its source.”
“You can’t go?”
“You know I don’t travel, Mal. Makes my stomach all ooky.”
The younger elfs exchanged glances.
“Anyway, Santa’s doing his annual detox—errr… management retreat—so it’s a perfect time to take the sleigh and go for a jaunt.”
“You say that like we wouldn’t be swiping a demigod-level magical artefact from said demigod.”
Sigrid shook her head. “Trust me, Mal; he won’t notice. Who keeps the reindeer in training during the off season? We do. Who repairs and maintains the sled? We do. Who takes it for a test flight so we can nail down any loose boards before the Christmas rush? We do. In short: nobody, least of all that fat old drunk, is going to notice if you take the sled for a spin.”
Zebediah snickered. “Actually… I probably shouldn’t be telling you this… Promise to keep it a secret?” The others nodded. “Well, me and Ruth occasionally take the sled for a little spin on moonlit nights. A little moonlight, a lot of Brennivin… the magic basically works itself.”
Malachai snickered. “Black death… petit mort… Who’s to know the difference?”
Zebediah looked baffled. “Who said anything about death? We just fool around a bit. It’s all perfectly natural.”
Sigrid sighed. “So if I could bring this back to the original topic?”
Malachai nodded. “All right, your idea makes sense. So how do we go about doing this? What do we need to know about these Chinese elfs?”
“First thing to keep in mind: When in Rome…”
“Eat Italian food!” Zebediah smacked his lips.
Sigrid glared at him. “Do as the Romans do. And before you ask, Zeb, it means you should understand that the local customs differ from ours. You need to make allowances. For example, they’re much more social than we are, and that’s saying something.”
“Social, or socialist?”
“Both, Mal. It’s all about relationships with them, and they won’t do business until they’ve established a trusting relationship with you. They want to know you’re trustworthy before they get into bed with you.”
“You mean we need to get nekkid because Romans sleep with their visitors?”
Malachai looked to the sky, seeking strength. “Metaphor, Zeb. Never you mind.”
Sigrid continued. “Here’s my advice. These Shanxiao love their seafood. It’s a southern China thing. They have a particular fondness for crabs and frogs. So feed them frogs and crabs, and bring lots of salt; they like salt. Then they’ll be beholden to you and eager to negotiate.”
Malachai gestured towards the triple-glazed window, half buried in snow. “Where in hell are we going to find frogs and crabs at this time of year?”
“Forage. Remember, southern China’s semitropical. The streams should be hopping and crawling with them. Oh… one last thing: the Shanxiao have this little anatomical inconvenience that’s best not mentioned: they each have only one leg.”
“How do their pants stay up?”
“Zeb, perhaps it would be best if you just shut up and leave the talking to Mal.”
“Okay. So when do we leave?” Zebediah looked wistfully up at the full moon shining through the window.
Malachai squared his shoulders. “No time like the present. Hit the salerni, and meet me at the barn.”
* * *
The reindeer, having grown fat and lazy during the endless days of the arctic summer, took a bit of persuading, but in the end, accepted their harness easily enough. Flying was, after all, what they’d been born to do, and their enthusiasm soon overcame their complacency. In less than an hour, they were airborne and flying south from the pole. They’d have been airborne sooner, but Malachai felt obliged to file a flight plan with NORAD, who wouldn’t be expecting them for another couple months. No point starting a world war just to resolve some labour difficulties.
The flight to Shenzhen was largely uneventful. The reindeer, once instructed, knew how to get there on their own—Rudolph had the GPS from Hell, minus the stilted voice narration. Airplanes were easily avoided; they flew much higher than the sleigh, and the reindeer instinctively avoided large airports. Apart from a near-collision with a flock of Valkyries, drunk and spoiling for a fight, the flight was smoother than most of their American flights. As of yet, there were no Amazon drones to avoid, though that would soon change; Alibaba had plans to roll them out nationally in China. The United States would soon follow.
* * *
Some time later, Malachai rose from the waters of the southern Chinese wilderness stream, cursing and dripping water. “The rivers will be hopping with frogs and crawling with crabs, she said. That smug bitch forgot that maybe the aforementioned, knowing they’re a local delicacy, would have no interest in the taking part in the feasting.”
Zebediah gave Malachai a hand, and hauled him out of the water. “Maybe you should hold my clothes and let me have a go?”
Zebediah peeled off his clothing and stepped into the stream. He waded in to about mid-thigh and began swirling his hips in a slow circle. After a moment, he yelped and turned around, the largest frog Malachai had ever imagined dangling from his hips. “See? It’s not so hard. All you need to do is use the right bait. Works on the lady elfs too.” He winked, knocked the frog on the head with a callused fist, then threw it to Malachai. “Ouch!” He turned around to reveal a large crab dangling from his privates. “A little help here? Not to say I want you to give me a hand, Mal.” He snickered and waited patiently while Malachai stuffed the dead frog in a sack and went to unpinch the crab.
“That’s certainly the most unusual form of crab fishing I have ever seen.”
Startled, the two elfs jumped and almost lost the crab. They found themselves facing two diminutive, one-legged elfs who, apart from their missing leg and night-black hair, could have been the cousins of the north-polar elfs.
Malachai bowed. “I’m Malachai. This is Zebediah. You can call us Mal and Zeb.”
“Hey, they’ve got only one…”
Malachai hastily clapped a hand over his companion’s mouth. “Only one chance to dine with us for the first time. As it happens, we’d be honoured to share our meal with you. Though to be honest, we’ve never cooked these critters before and would appreciate your help.”
“Women gaoxing renshi nimen. That is to say, we’re pleased to make your acquaintance.” The speaker had impeccable pronunciation and a distinct British accent. “You can call me Jo-nei; my friend here is Hui. We would be honoured to share your meal, and to share a drink with you.” Before the polar elfs could blink, the second elf had produced a small cookstove, a thin metal cooking bowl just large enough to hold the food, a bag of charcoal, cooking implements, a fistful of chopsticks, several tiny ceramic cups, and a bottle with a red label and incomprehensible golden characters scrawled across its face. While their hosts prepared dinner, the northern elfs replaced their clothing.
Within moments, the frog and crab had been cleaned and were sizzling in fragrant oil with cloves of garlic and several other things the northerners couldn’t identify. It smelled heavenly.
“If you perhaps had…” Malachai handed over a small bag of salt. “Xie xie.” The Shanxiao sprinkled a generous pinch of salt into the bowl. Somehow, the frog and crab had divided themselves into four even pieces, and Jo-nei nimbly flipped them into small bowls of rice that Hui produced with a flourish. The tastes and textures were odd to the northerners, but not so odd they didn’t finish every last scrap and lick the bowls clean for good measure.
Hui filled the four small cups, and handed them around. “Gan bei!”
“She means bottoms up. I’m sorry; her English is not very good. Be careful… maotai is potent.”
Malachai sniffed suspiciously at the drink, then took a deep breath and downed the shot. He immediately began coughing. Zebediah downed his, licked his lips, and reached inside his vest pocket. “Dee-lish! If you like that stuff, you’ll love this.” He deftly removed the screwtop from his silver flask and poured some into the cups of their hosts. “We call it Brennivin, and it’s also wicked strong.”
The Chinese elfs sniffed, took a sip, and then eagerly downed their shots.
“To long-lost cousins!” Everyone took a shot.
“To new foods and new friends!” Hui refilled the glasses, then everyone had a shot.
“To happy and productive international relations!” Hui refilled their cups, and they each took a shot.
Several toasts later, all four elfs were sitting, as it had become increasingly difficult to stand. The toasts continued, getting slightly less focused and less crisply expressed, but broad smiles crossed the cultural gap when words failed them. At some point, Malachai noticed that Zebediah and Hui had disappeared. Suspicious noises were coming from the underbrush just outside the circle of light from the brazier, but just when he was about to make some exceedingly clever point, it eluded him and he fell asleep.
* * *
In the morning, Malachai woke to a crackling campfire, tended by Jo-nei. To one side of the fire, Zebediah sat with his arm around Hui’s shoulders. “Hey, Mal! Love the way these Romans greet their guests.” He winked broadly.
Malachai shook his head sadly, and immediately regretted the gesture. Overnight, a workshop of tinkers had nested in his skull. Jo-nei smiled at him. “Now that we have become… friends…” He tilted his head slightly towards the other two elfs. “What business have you come here to discuss?”
Malachi explained the problem.
“Yes, I see.” Jo-nei pursed his lips. “We too have had similar problems, though we are not employed as you are. Here, we believe that the workers control the means of production, and thus have an essential say in how their managers perform their work. This has changed since paramount leader Deng’s reforms”—Zebediah snickered and Malachai shot him a glare—“so we too have had problems maintaining our traditional beliefs.” Hui said something that sounded like two birds singing a duet. “Hui says that we international workers of the world must unite because of our shared interests, and I find myself in agreement.”
“So what’s to be done?”
“You are now part of our guanxiwang, so leave things to us. We’ll ensure that your Santa gains no traction on our shores. We have some experience keeping Westerners out.”
The elfs shared a breakfast of rice porridge, shook hands, agreed that they must meet again soon, and then went their separate ways. Just before they climbed aboard the sleigh, Malachai bit his lip and turned to his friend. “Okay… So I have to ask. With only one leg, how…”
“I have three, and that makes up for her lack.” Zebediah leered at his friend, then climbed aboard.
The flight home was uneventful, save only for an encounter with a serpentine dragon, who, rather than eating their reindeer, courteously introduced himself as Lao Long, beamed toothily at them when they told him of their new Chinese friends, and wished them a safe journey and speedy return. All the way, the wind was at their back, and they made excellent time.
* * *
Sigrid met them at the reindeer barn. “So? How did it go?”
“We had a wonderful time, Sigi. Thanks for your suggestions. I think we’ve made some good friends, and that we’ll have nothing to fear from offshoring.” Malachai summarized their visit, carefully redacting Zebediah’s adventures in the interests of discretion.
Sigrid got a distant look. “Don’t be too quick to celebrate your victory. If you’re now part of their guanxi network, that gives you considerable power… but also considerable responsibilities. I wouldn’t be surprised if we soon receive a Chinese delegation looking for their own assistance.”
Zebediah licked his lips. “I’ll be eager to greet them.”
“All the same, perhaps I’d best go have a few words with Santa.” Zebediah stepped back at the coldness in the older elf’s voice; Malachai just shivered and looked away.
* * *
Sigrid entered Santa’s office without knocking. The old man looked up from his game of Tetris, and his face froze. After a long moment, he pushed back the laptop and managed a wary smile. “Sigi! Great to see you again. What can I do for you?”
“Shenzhen.”
“Ah. You’ve heard of that.” Sweat sprang out on Santa’s brow.
“It isn’t going to happen.”
“But I’ve already drafted an action plan. You can’t imagine how much money we’ll save!”
“I said, and I repeat: it isn’t going to happen.”
“But Sigi…”
Sigrid smiled coldly. “You recall our… discussion… when you suggested adopting assembly lines and our subsequent… discussion… about robots?” Santa paled. “Precisely. I don’t think we need to go through that again, do we?”
“No… Ma’am.”
Sigrid’s smile warmed fractionally. “I’m glad we understand each other. Oh, and in case you were thinking you might slip something past me? We’ve already spoken with our Chinese counterparts and reached an understanding. I think that at best, you’ll get the cold shoulder. At worst… Well, let’s just say the Shanxiao have an even longer history of… negotiation… than my Svartalfar kin.” Sigrid’s smile became particularly chilling.
As she closed the door behind her, she paused a moment to listen. Most of the words were lost beyond the thick oak, but Sigrid smiled at the emphatically repeated “bloody huldufólk”. Then she gave a shake, like a terrier with a rat, settled her clothing more comfortably, and returned to her workshop.
Offshoring and elfs is a real thing, sort of: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/china/10530703/Meet-Chinas-Christmas-elves.html. Shanxiao translates literally as “mountain spirits”. In this story, they are not based on primary sources but rather on a very selective reading of their Wikipedia description (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xiao_(mythology)) to choose traits relevant to this story. Jo-nei and Hui are common names for these beings, and as the Chinese tend to introduce themselves first with family names, I’ve used those names when they introduce themselves. I’ve done my best to present them flavoured by what I’ve learned from my Chinese friends and colleagues during three trips to China and much correspondence over the years. Guanxi is the Chinese concept of shared obligations and mutual responsibilities; it’s kind of like networking on steroids. One’s guanxiwang is the network of people with whom one shares guanxi. Lao Long is, more or less, Mandarin for "venerable dragon". Salerni is the Icelandic word for bathroom. Alibaba is China’s Amazon-equivalent. Brennivin is Iceland’s signature distilled liquor, and nicknamed “the black death”. It has a delicious liquorice/anise flavour, but it’s seriously potent stuff. Maotai is China’s answer to Brennivin, but made from rice instead of potatoes. It’s traditionally used for rounds of toasts at Chinese farewell feasts. As the Romans might have said, after a few rounds, in maotai veritas.
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