by Saxon Keeley
Wesley is quick to realise this is an execution. Not wanting any part in it, he offers his brother reconciliation. “Alistair…we should turn…back. Get a…drink.”
“No,” Alistair refused, shaking his head, “there is something that must be done first.”
“Your children…Nicholas…Jessica…they need you. They need…their father.”
“I know, but this will not take long,” he insisted marching on, ignoring his brother’s plea.
Sun Ren circles the four captive politicians responsible for the occupation, the Gang of Four. Du Jianguo, Li He and Yao Hongwen wear their jackets, the golden Sanzuwu of the Shanxi Conservatives proudly on display. Israel Epstein, the last Westerner on Neo-Shanxi still loyal to the CERE, curses the soldiers.
“Minister Jung,” she saluted, her and the soldiers stand to attention as the brothers arrive.
Alistair inspects the Gang of Four with a malice the likes Wesley has never witnessed before. Du catches his eye and attempts to reason with him.
“We did not know,” he said ashamed. “We were as much prisoners as the people.”
Enraged by his feeble effort to alleviate responsibility, Sun Ren forces the butt of her rifle into the back of his head, the force of which almost sends him falling prematurely into the pit.
“They were caught trying to escape Shanxi on the boats with the rest of the CERE, but were detained and brought here for justice,” Sun Ren explained.
This is not justice, Wesley thought to himself, watching the execution squad take their places. The city’s pain had led to madness and Alistair had brought him here to legitimise the insanity.
“These people are the Gang of Four, the individuals who enabled the CERE to infiltrate our colony and collaborated with the occupying army, authorising the deaths of hundreds. A puppet government who sold out their own people,” Alistair said, noticing the distance Wesley leaves between them.
“Alistair, please, I did not know,” Du begged, only to receive another shunt from Sun Ren.
“Chairman Zhang left us with no choice,” Li He argued.
The soldier behind kicks her in the side, landing just under her ribcage, and the deputy of the SC gasps for air. Held upright, she is not even allowed to curl into a ball to nurse the pain. The other politicians hang their heads hoping to avoid the soldier’s retribution.
“Your repentance comes too late Chairman Du. Where were you when they took our grandfather and captured my family? What did you do when the people resisted, giving their own blood to save their city? You and your party collaborated with the CERE, committing treason,” Alistair said, giving the signal to Sun Ren.
Rising their weapons, the execution squad take aim.
“Stand…down,” ordered Wesley.
Each of the soldiers lets go of the trigger, but none of them lower their rifle.
The awkward silence is interrupted by Yao Hongwen who begins to blubber, afraid to die. Wesley wears a stern look, asserting his command over the soldiers, but Sun Ren’s presence undermines his authority and the soldiers ready themselves once again. His former commander stares at him with utter contentment.
“Brother, these people need to answer for what they have done,” said Alistair.
“And this…is justice?”
“Yes.”
“This is…tyranny.”
“Tyranny?” Alistair shouted back. “What they did to Weishi was tyranny. Xuan, Grandfather, you where the one who found them! Mother, Father. Do you feel nothing?”
Wesley knows the anger driving his brother, but refuses to be consumed by it. For if they give in to that anger, S.E.L. will have won. Slowly he edges away.
“No…this is not…right. They should be…put on trial…exiled…made accountable…but not murdered. Not like…this. Neither should you…permit this execution. Killing them…will not bring…them back.”
Despondently dismissing his brother, Alistair turns back to the Gang of Four and to Sun Ren, who holds out a pistol for him. Before he can see his brother take the gun, Wesley turns his back and head towards the city.
“How did you think this would end?” Alistair called out after him.
“Not…like this.”
The first shot was blunt, quiet and short, fired from a small handgun. The shots that followed were frenzied and fierce. With that the occupation ended, and a war begun.
*
A musky smell lingers in the underground barracks that had served faithfully as the resistance’s headquarters. Even the occupation had not managed to erase the ghostly marks that stain the floor from where morning drills use to take place.
All but abandoned, Wesley wanders the halls of the barracks. Empty beds that slept entire families go cold. Lockers filled with people’s worldly possessions, that they managed to scrounge together from the surface, have been quickly forgotten. Tattered, dirty clothes are left sprawled all over the place.
He returns to Sun Tzu’s chamber, where him and his mentor would train into the early hours of the morning, and clears the room by pushing the tables to one side. In the centre of the room, Wesley lights some incense and lays out his mentor’s Jian, unwrapping it from the cloth that sheaths it.
Gripping the blade tight, he waits for the blood to seep through his fingers. The engraving of the silver ring fills with blood. He unclenches the blade when his hand goes numb. Silently he bids Sun Tzu and the Yong Squad farewell.
China
Wolf
Warm vapour expels through the busted filter canister of his mask. The morning mist lays thick across the decaying fields, making their suits muggy. A tree stands brittle and withered. Radiation poisons the land, turning it barren.
Under the tree, they bury Lynx, scooping the soil with their hands. Minimal provisions where provided in case of nuclear war, and when they all felt the sickness, Lynx began forgoing his medication, stashing it away for when the others ran out. He was not sick for very long, but in that short time the soldier suffered. Wolf had known he was skipping his shots, but chose not to tell Portia or Viper.
Despite the extra medication, they do not have enough to survive the journey west and Nationalist Forces are driving them south, further into the providence of Shanxi. He can already feel the sickness stirring once again.
The last few handfuls of dirt are sprinkled over the grave. Viper rests Lynx’s rifle up against the dying tree and takes the opportunity to murmur his goodbyes to a friend he didn’t even know by name.
The time they have already spent burying Lynx puts Wolf on edge, out in the open field they leave themselves exposed, and time is a precious commodity that they cannot afford to waste. Taking the lead, Wolf sets them going, marching off into the mist.
For an hour, they walk at a good steady pace, even though the three of them are tired and hungry. Empty groans call from each of their bodies. Even if they were to find food, the crops would be poisoned and the animals rabid.
Stopping at the foot of a hill, Wolf listens to the disturbance in the wind. The grass rustles. A metallic scent wafts up his nose. There is a warmth in the air. Something is close by. He regrets having laid Lynx to rest and now they would pay for their compassion. He spots a grey figure moving about in the mist.
“Take cover!” he commanded, diving into a nearby ditch.
Dropping to the ground, Portia disappears into the long grass and drags herself behind a large boulder. Viper instead draws the incoming fire away from the others and confronts the following National Forces.
“I’ve got this. Go!” Viper yelled.
Leaning against the rock, Portia awaits her orders. She checks the rounds in her clip, ready to make their final stand. “Wolf?”
“Just go!” Viper yelled again, pulling out of cover to fire blindly into the thick looming haze.
“We can’t just leave you,” she called back.
“If you stay, you die.”
Wolf waits for a short lull, then climbs out from the ditch and makes for the hill. “Move!” he
ordered Portia.
Together they head for higher ground, both expecting to hear Viper’s final moments, but neither of them do. The gunfire is continuous, even as they are chased up the hill.
Portia glances back to find a swarm of Nationalist soldiers advancing towards them. Stray bullets narrowly miss her, hitting the earth with tremendous force. The dirt spays her lenses. Spinning around, she picks off a few through her scope, forcing them to scatter, buying her and Wolf a few seconds longer.
The incline steepens and they slip on the damp soil, using embedded rocks as sturdy grips, the two of them climb on all fours. Clumps of mud fill the gaps between their fingers making their escape increasingly difficult.
A sudden screech then thud brings Wolf to a stop. For a second he is convinced that he has been hit. His heart pounds in his ear. He waits for a pain that does not come. Portia’s screams reassure him that he is fine.
Behind, laying in the dirt, she holds her bloody side. Wolf digs one hand into the soil and stretches out his other arm for her. Reaching out she takes his hand and Wolf pulls them up the rest of the way.
The hill flattens out, and though Wolf needs to rest, he knows they have very little time until the pursuing soldiers catch up. On his feet again, he throws her arm over his shoulder and carries her over to the other side. At the bottom of the hill is a river, the water rushing south deeper into the province. With no bridge in sight, they have nowhere else to run.
“Put me down,” said Portia.
He does as he is told, almost dropping her from exhaustion. Inspecting her wound, the blood is blackened as it mixes with the mud. Colour drains from her cheeks and sharp wheezing sounds from the back of her throat. Grabbed by the back of his neck, she brings him in close.
“S.E.L. succeeded, we were never supposed to survive beyond the walls of the Forbidden City, yet we did. In the name of peace, we followed you. Inspiring chaos that infected this country, killing the innocent and the deserving alike. You are a daeva, the worst of your kind. To die like animals, is a death too good for us.”
“I may be a devil, but I did what was necessary. Doing something terrible to avert further terror from happening, it is but a small price to pay,” he said, listening out for the Nationalist Forces.
Portia chokes as she laughs. “Terror to prevent terror, what a sick joke.”
“And yet, you were there every step of the way.”
Wolf lets her go and leaves her laying on the ground. Voices of the Nationalist soldiers are close by and will appear over the top any second now. He runs as fasts as his legs will carry him, choosing his path down towards the river carefully so to obscure his presence for as long as possible. Unlike Viper, Wolf hears the shot that brings Portia’s life to an end.
On low ground with little cover, he is fully aware of his disadvantage and weaves in and out to make himself a harder target. The river is the only place for him to go, but what happens when he reaches it, he cannot say. He quietens his mind, allowing for instinct to dictate his actions.
Leaping off from the edge, Wolf notices the river’s edge farther away than he had anticipated. Below him is nothing but rock and he braces himself for the impact.
The whole weight of his body comes crashing down onto his foot, which lands on a surface as treacherous as jagged ice. He tumbles over the rocks, slamming his head and losing consciousness.
Caught in the current, Wolf’s floating body drifts downstream, deeper into Shanxi.
Neo-Shanxi
Oscar Jung
Carried by his uncle, Alexander sleeps. A damp patch on Wesley’s shoulder is left from his tears. Even in his sleep the child snivels. Oscar holds open the door and his brother walks into the apartment, heading straight for Alexander’s bedroom.
The funeral had been small and private, with only the three of them there to lay Xuan’s body to rest. She would have despised being buried in the Imperial Gardens, however it is her right as part of the family. Oscar and Wesley found a secluded part in the gardens, away from where the others would be buried, and when Shanxi returns to normal, she will be surrounded by flowers all year round.
Tucking Alexander into bed, Wesley stays with him for a while in case he stirs. From the doorway Oscar watches them, content in seeing his son finally able to lay his head down to rest. Flipping the light switch, they leave the door ajar so not to shut him away in the darkness.
Already, before Oscar could make the suggestion, his brother pours out two generous measures of expensive whiskey from the drinks cabinet, switches on the stereo so it plays gently in the background, and collapses in the armchair. Oscar takes the drink without hesitation and gulps down a reasonable mouthful.
“Bai Guang?” Oscar asked, trying to make out the track.
Wesley nods. “I forgot…you have good…taste,” he said, sipping on the whiskey, impressed by its body.
“What are you going to do next?”
“What…do you mean?”
Oscar sits up and leans over his drink. “Are you going to stay here, on Shanxi?”
“Are you…not?”
“No, there is too much hurt here. I am going to take Alexander with me to Maia, there we can start afresh. Father found his place on this colony by helping the people, and there is so much I can do for the people of Maia, for the whole of the Charted Systems. It will be good for Alexander too, give him opportunities that do not otherwise exist here on Shanxi.”
Wesley understands the distance his brother is putting between himself and their home, but feels the need to ask nevertheless. “Will you not…miss Shanxi?”
“Neo-Shanxi was a dream Grandfather sold to all of us. He told us that we were Chinese, that this was the only way our history and culture could be preserved. But he sold us a lie. We are the three sons of Dr Charles and Li Jung, anywhere there is a TFP is where we may belong,” he explained. “So, what are you going to do next?”
Oscar waits for his brother to answer, taking another large gulp.
“Grandfather…through his lies…brought us war. I will serve…ensuring Shanxi never…happens again,” answered Wesley with an intense glint in his eye.
The two sit, listening to the music, not wanting or needing to say anything to one another, feeling the weight of the day dissipate as the last few hours dwindle off into little more than fleeting memories.
Asleep on the sofa, Wesley places a blanket over his brother and removes the half-finished drink encased in his grip. Tipping the rest of Oscar’s drink into his own, Wesley walks out on to the balcony. The cityscape is cut-out silhouettes against a starry backdrop and Bai Guang begins to sing ‘Waiting for You’.
Alistair Jung
Resting his hand on the desk, Alistair is reluctant to take his place at the head of the Neo-Shanxi Assembly. His grandfather’s blood still stains the floor of the Whispering Circle, yet he knows it was what he would have wanted.
The old Assembly has been officially disbanded and as the new Chairman takes his place, a new Assembly is assembled. Dragons and crows no longer frolic together within these walls, in their stead sit powerful and influential families that are, above all else, loyal to the Chairman and to Neo-Shanxi.
Lin Zongren, a lean and fit man wearing an arm sling, takes a seat to Alistair’s right. The man’s wife, who is beautiful in ways that only high-class patrons of old Shanghai could understand, sits next to him. While Alistair returns to Maia, Lin will oversee Shanxi as the Vice Chairman.
“Good morning all,” Alistair began. “Today marks the point in which our history changes. A new era for our great colony and for all Chinese. Each of you have been invited to form this new assembly because of the qualities and expertise you have shown in this past year, an unwavering resolve to stand against adversity and a nobility to aid all those in need. Without you, this colony would not have survived.
“Grandfather…Chairman Zhang, believed that Neo-Shanxi could not work within the confines of the restrictive and exploitative regime imposed onto us by the
CERE. In fact, no colony within the Charted System can efficiently function under their rule. Neo-Shanxi has proven that colonies do not need Earth and their ways in which they think we should live.
“From today onwards, elections are no longer to be held. Shanxi’s governing body sits right here in front of me. A board of devoted and loyal members of the colony who can provide stability, strength and direction.
“Shanxi is unique, nowhere else in the Charted Systems is there a colony that carries such historical and cultural burdens. Through blood we are bound to our people’s past, and it is through blood we shall ensure that the only people to rule over the Chinese are Chinese.
“Victory is ours today, but the road ahead is long and the CERE seek to conspire against all we have achieved. Although war waits for us tomorrow, we must not forfeit, we must not compromise. History would condemn us if we were to relinquish this gift bestowed upon us by my father.
“United, Maia and Thuỷ Phủ will stand with Neo-Shanxi against our enemies and help those who wish to be rid of Earth’s influence, building secure and just foundations for our children, so they may inherit a future that is worth being a part of,” Alistair finished.
The small board of families applaud his speech, following Lin Zongren and his wife’s example in rising to their feet. For a second Alistair forgets his grief, then is quickly reminded of it as he switches on his tablet and scans the meeting’s agenda, knowing it will be days before he re-joins his family on Maia.
Wesley Jung
The boat is almost ready. Wesley passes up the last of the luggage through to the baggage handler, with so many families wanting to flee from the heartache of Shanxi the amount of luggage per passenger has been restricted for the initial voyage, and children must share a single case with their siblings.
The year he spent on Maia made Wesley realise the little worth material possessions hold and how easily they can be replaced. Instead of packing anything from his apartment, he filled his case with books from his grandfather’s library and let Jessica take a memento of her mother. Unable to bare leaving her mother’s dresses behind, she picked out a single slick black cheongsam with a silver dragon climbing down the front. When Jessica picked it out, she told her uncle how beautiful her mother looked whenever she wore it. The dress even smelt like Weishi.