Beng Beng Revolution

by Lu Huiyi

  “I told you to stop,” snapped the Chief, her voice rough with pain.

  “You let go of my brother, and I’ll stop—”

  “You want me to break his neck now? Because I can. And it’ll be your fault.”

  Beng stilled.

  “See,” said the Chief, and now he could hear the smile in her voice. “I knew you could be reasonable.”

  Beng said nothing, so she went on talking.

  “And because I’m nice, I’ll give you a choice.” Her voice brightened dangerously. “You have your brother here, in mostly good shape—well, bleeding a little, but so are you, and so am I, so who’s counting?” She laughed, manic and bright and sharp. “And then I’ve got your parents, below deck. I wonder how long they’ll last.”

  “What have you done to my parents?”

  “Nothing Archibald doesn’t already know about,” said the Chief, her voice taking on a poisonous insinuating quality. It was all Beng could do to not strike out in her direction.

  “Anyway, I want you to choose,” she went on. “So your parents have been in the press gang for a couple weeks now—selling themselves to the ship probably wasn’t the best way to try and leave Singapore—such idiots. But people never think, they never think through things properly. And it’s just so punishing on people of that age, to have to do such heavy work, eh?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You can’t save us, Beng, please get out—”

  “So you aren’t walking out of this alive, no matter how you look at it. But you can do one of two things,” she said. “Either you kill your brother, right here, right now. And I’ll buy your parents out, put them on a boat to Malaysia, so they can start over. I’ll even be nice about it—you can make it a good, clean death, if your Power is recovered enough to allow for it.”

  “Huat walks out of this alive,” Beng snarled.

  “Oh,” she said. “In that case, then maybe option two—I’m going to buy your parents and I’m going to eviscerate them and hang up their goddamn guts in the city centre, right next to your rotting body.”

  A long pause; the weight on him grew sharper at the edges, cutting into him like a serrated knife.

  “You like choices,” she said, with unrestrained glee. “So yes. Your parents, or your brother? You keep quiet any longer, and I’ll kill your entire traitor family.”

  The slow drip, drip of his own blood on the floor felt like the ticking of a clock, lethal and foreboding.

  “She’s doing it to get to you,” Huat, again, voice strained. “She’ll do us in anyway—”

  “And you can just shut the hell up,” said the Chief, and then Huat was choking for breath, little strangled gasps of pain that killed Beng inside.

  “He’s not going to last much longer,” she observed casually. “Just a little longer and you won’t even have to choose anymore, isn’t that nice?”

  “Please,” Beng cried out, involuntarily, not even fully aware that he was saying it. “I’ll do anything, let him go, let him go, don’t let him die, please—”

  There is nothing as important as keeping them safe.

  She didn’t let go. But she, too, was making little sounds of pain through gritted teeth, because it hurt her to exert as much of her Power as she was doing right now.

  They are fragile, they are blind to it all, they’re a train wreck waiting to happen.

  And Beng thought of how her Power ate of her blood to fuel itself, and how he had had to surrender his vision to gain control of his Power—

  Nothing was so important as to send the trolley trundling the other way—nobody else had to get hurt—nobody else would be hurt if he did what was right—

  IT IS VERY USEFUL TO LIKE THE THINGS YOU ARE MADE FOR.

  —Not just you—no, us—and us alone—

  And then he let go, surrendering all of himself to the Power.

  Suddenly, without warning, his vision returned to him, hyper-focused and too bright and altogether terrible.

  The world flashed before him, a cacophony of visions, grating and painful like a sandpaper scream tearing out past bloodied lips. His limbs were moving, not of his own accord; he was faintly aware that he—the Power—was in a flurry of violence—and that the Power was winning—

  “DID YOU WANT HIM TO CHOOSE?” roared the Power, “BECAUSE HE WILL NOT BE CHOOSING ANYMORE.”

  There was a piercing shriek. Beng didn’t know if it was his own cry, or the Chief lapsing into wild screams of terror, or some hapless innocent caught in the crossfire. He only knew that the fine balance that held him and the Power had snapped, and that he had no control, no leverage over the ten thousand impending eventualities flickering before his eyes.

  Huat—

  “HE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO CHOOSE,” and the Power sounded so happy, so deliriously happy, and Beng was drowning in it—

  There was a spray of blood; the Chief was screaming, and her body contorting in ways no human body was meant to move. She was dead, she was dead, she was dead and she wouldn’t be the only one if the Power had anything to say about it!

  “Beng, no—” said someone, and Beng thought it might have been his brother, but then the voice was gone.

  He felt inexplicable anger surge through him.

  “I AM NOT BENG.” Maybe he had said that—or the Power—or maybe it was him—he was simultaneously blinded and overwhelmed by colour and light. The world was on fire. The Power was out, exultant, terrifying, more real than he was—and he was not there.

  “Beng.”

  He was coming to.

  “Beng?”

  Everything hurt. Not the kind of hurt one felt after a good workout, or the cramping agony of severe hunger, or the kind of blood-and-bone pain that came after a vicious assault. It was in his muscles, his bones, his mind, the very foundations of his soul. It was a new kind of pain that was greater than his very being; he was lost in it.

  “Come on, Beng, you have to get up.”

  He made an effort and somehow broke through the onslaught of agony and incoherence, cracking an eye open with vast difficulty. The world swam before him, his vision flickering wildly between pitch darkness and a spinning world. It made him nauseous.

  “Beng.” It was Huat, crowding in on him, flustered and shaking violently from the strain and—maybe Huat was wounded, and at that thought Beng tried to get to his feet but he couldn’t and it just made his brother fuss even more.

  “Who am I?” It wasn’t the first thing he had expected himself to say, but the words had emerged unbidden. He managed to meet his brother’s eyes and caught the beginnings of a surprised expression blossoming on Huat’s face, before his vision went dark again.

  Time stood still for a moment.

  YOUR NAME.

  There was an awful noise. He couldn’t sleep.

  MY NAME.

  What is my name.

  “Beng, you’ve got to keep it together.”

  OUR NAME.

  “My—name—” he slurred, only half-conscious.

  “Don’t thrash like that—it’s nothing, there’re just some protestors—”

  OUR NAME IS BENG.

  He faded out into darkness again.

  When he woke, he was in a stuffy room of sorts.

  He didn’t even know where he was at first. He only knew that the air smelled stale and fishy, and that when he slumped back uselessly onto the floor, the clang of his head against metal echoed in such a way as to suggest small, confined quarters. He tried to get up on shaking limbs. As he struggled to pull himself up in vain, his flailing arms reached out for support and felt the cool metal of the walls, and that was how he knew. It was one of those massive shipping containers used in shipyards and construction sites, and he had no idea where this particular container was situated.

  The thought of being trapped terrified him. He remembered, in sporadic bursts, being locked in his own body, afraid and alone, as the Power rampaged on the surface.

  “You’re awake,” said Huat,
his voice wary.

  “Huat,” Beng managed, his tongue thick and cottony.

  “You were injured in the fight,” said Huat.

  “I don’t feel injured.” He meant it. Stiff and sore and drained, yes, but he wasn’t bleeding or incapacitated, and nothing felt broken.

  “The Power absorbed most of the damage.” Huat sank down onto the floor, pressing his shoulder against Beng, like they did when they were children, exhausted from an afternoon of play. “But it took a lot out of it—out of him.”

  Beng made an abortive effort to sit up, and when that proved too much for him to attempt, he devoted himself to feeling around for the Power again. It seemed to still be within him, but this time weakened and finite, like a well that was almost running dry.

  “It might come back,” he said, though he wasn’t sure. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he would prefer it if the Power did.

  There was a distant rumble, and then a cheer.

  “OUR NAME IS BENG!”

  Beng startled.

  “Whassat—”

  “There’s been a rebellion,” said Huat.

  Beng blinked.

  “The Chief…” said Huat, sounding slightly nauseated. Beng recalled the crunch of her spine and her wide-eyed gaze as the life was crushed out of her. He knew what Huat was going to tell him, and found that he did not much care to hear it said out loud.

  “How long was I out?” he asked.

  “Two days.”

  “Two whole days?”

  Huat produced a vessel of water and passed it to Beng, opening the cap for him so that he could take slow sips.

  “The power did some—okay, a lot of damage,” he said, in the way he had when he was trying against all possibility to be delicate.

  “I don’t feel that bad.”

  “It fixed you. But in the shipyard—well, the Gahmen troops were forced to retreat. All of them—but I’m sure they’ll come back. And you smashed some of the ships and there was a lot of property damage and quite a lot of people saw it.”

  “Are we in more trouble now?” Beng didn’t think he could run or fight, the way he was right now.

  “With the Gahmen and the Gentlemen, of course. But the rebellion is by the people. They’re on your side.”

  Beng startled, surprised. He made a renewed attempt to sit up and—third time lucky—managed it after a brief groping struggle, propping himself up against the wall.

  “What kind of people?” he said.

  There was a faint rustle, then a cold wetness—a wad of soaked clothing was being pressed down on a seeping cut on his leg. Beng had no idea where his brother was getting all these supplies from.

  “There were labourers on the ships—many of them were slaves. The poor, criminals, immigrants—anyone with nowhere to go—the Gahmen has had them here for a long time.” There was a growing thread of something in Huat’s voice. It sounded like purpose; it sounded like pride.

  “Some of them got free during the scuffle, and joined the fight.” He went on. “The Chief’s key people—what was left of them after you were done, that is—they’ve run off for now, but their thugs are still around. And the fight hasn’t quite stopped.”

  “They know my name.”

  “People saw you fighting, before you collapsed. You’re quite a hero.”

  The cold compress was removed. Huat rinsed it in what sounded like a bucket of water, and laid it over the wound again. Beng brushed him away and held the cloth in place himself, willing strength back into his aching, wobbly limbs.

  “I told you Archibald was a lousy name,” he said. “Too difficult for the masses to remember.”

  Huat laughed, a strangled, rusty sound.

  “So we’ve been here the whole time?”

  “We’ll need to move soon,” Huat warned.

  “You said people are fighting outside.”

  “Yes—all over the shipyard and the ships themselves. We aren’t too far off.”

  “Are Ma and Pa part of those people?”

  “They are,” Huat said. “I think. But I don’t know if they’re fighting, or hiding—or—”

  “Have you seen them?”

  Huat got to his feet slowly.

  “No,” he said wearily. “But I know they were made to join the Labour crew. It’s not a good place. I was trying to get in touch with them before you showed up, but the Guards weren’t the most helpful.”

  “Well, the Guards are busy now, aren’t they?” said Beng. “Ma and Pa must be somewhere about. We need to find them.”

  “I know.”

  There was a long pause. Huat was moving around the container now, and he wasn’t being particularly quiet about it. A few bangs and thuds later, he returned and pressed something metal, rough and thick into Beng’s hands.

  A steel pipe.

  “This is like one of those shooting games we used to have,” Beng said lightly. “Like when you’re nearly down to nothing and all they give you is the shittiest weapon in the pack.”

  “It’s just till the Power comes back,” said Huat. Beng slowly staggered to his feet, using the wall as support and lurching dangerously once or twice. Huat placed a steadying hand on Beng’s shoulder, but Beng shook his head and his brother retreated obligingly. Beng took an experimental step or two. His head spun for a worrying moment, but he thought he was feeling better the more he pushed himself.

  “We just need to stay out of sight long enough to find Ma and Pa,” said Huat into the silence. He sounded like he was psyching himself up for it. “And once the Power comes back, then it won’t matter where we are or who we bump into—the Power can take on just about anyone.”

  OUR NAME IS BENG.

  “The Power might not come back,” said Beng. The familiar stirrings of bloodlust were still not there, and he felt like half of himself.

  “Do you need a rest?” Huat said, slowly and carefully.

  “I’m not going to get much better than I am now,” said Beng. “Not in the next few days, anyway. And you said we didn’t have long.”

  “They’ve been setting fires and breaking into things. It’s a matter of time before the fighting spreads to where we are.”

  There was a wild war whoop in the background. They couldn’t tell which faction it was coming from.

  “Well, sounds like we gotta move then,” said Beng. “But you should know—I really can’t be sure if the Power will ever come back.”

  “I know.”

  “Just so you don’t keep hoping for it, is all.” He weighed the steel pipe in his hands; tried to find the best way of gripping it. It might work for close combat, if nobody had gotten their hands on arrows or dart pipes or any other long-range shit.

  It was a while before he added, “I might be happier if it didn’t come back, if it’s all the same to you.”

  There was a significant pause.

  “You gave up your sight so you could use the Power better,” said Huat at last.

  “Fat lot of good it did me, eh?”

  “Do you get a say in whether that comes back, then?”

  “I don’t think it works like that.”

  “Well, no harm in moving first then,” said Huat, with equal parts helplessness and decision, and Beng understood so thoroughly how his brother felt that he broke into a laugh, dry and strained.

  MY NAME IS BENG.

  There was a double-barred exit on the other side of the container. It creaked so loudly when they began to open it that their hopes of slipping out into the melee unseen seemed more like wishful thinking than anything else.

  The door was stuck; this obviously wasn’t a well-used storage space. Huat pulled at it patiently and it gave, centimetre by centimetre.

  Beng could smell the salt of the sea, and hear the distant shouts that hinted at a wider world outside. They were still chanting his name, a rallying cry that had taken on a life larger than his own. He tensed; soon he would be back out there, and there would be neither rest, nor reprieve.

  Beng knew ho
w to move—to move, to move and to never be still—but he was so very tired.

  “I don’t know if we’re going to make it, Huat. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

  “We’ll go together,” Huat replied, without even turning back from the door.

  He might as well lay the whole truth out, while they were still safe.

  “You know I can’t go home ever again,” Beng said. “Someday I’m going to go crazy.”

  “That’s okay,” said Huat.

  “You don’t get it. I can’t even be one person all the time. Someday I’m going to end up killing you. Or worse, I’m going to end up killing somebody else.”

  “It’s all right,” said Huat, unflappable as always. “I knew that already. It’ll be all right.”

  The door swung open with an unholy screech.

  Beng turned in his direction, and for a moment he imagined that he could see his brother, his own features imprinted on another’s face, stubborn to the very end.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the sea-salty air.

  He opened his eyes, and looked without fear into the unrelenting darkness.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Epigram Books for giving this story the opportunity to see the light of day. Edmund, Jason, Joanne, Jiayi and Chris have been amazing throughout the process of editing, designing, and marketing Beng Beng Revolution, and I have learnt so much from working with them.

  I am also immensely grateful to my family (Mum, Dad, Huihui and Zhi Yang) and friends for always believing in me and my writing, for listening to my stories, and for celebrating my smallest successes and supporting me through my toughest setbacks.

  Finally, thank you to all the teachers and instructors who have ever given me feedback, comments or encouragement with regards to my writing. Thank you for making me believe that I can write. I will continue to hone my craft, and hope to become a better writer in the future.

  About the Author