Three Sons

by Saxon Keeley

  “I propose that we use the Sister Dreadnoughts, Aglaopheme and Thelxiepeia, to launch a controlled orbital strike on the colony of Mu, a water rich planet which has been a disputed colony for the past two years, to neutralise CERE influence and to secure a sustainable water supply. The strike will target military facilities only, minimising the risk of civilian causalities.

  “Mu is all that stands between us and victory,” he finished.

  Most ministers and their generals all murmur amongst themselves, collectively nodding along auspiciously. The only officials to refrain from such complicit enthusiasm is a quiet minority from Thuỷ Phủ. Amongst the ramblings of the board, Oscar glances over at Wesley as if he were giving him permission.

  A loud bang comes from the end of the table as Wesley slams his palm in anger. Everyone is silenced, their attention drawn to the youngest of the three brothers.

  “As the general of…Maia’s armed forces…I will not condone the…orbital strike,” he said with such diction no one dares to interrupt. “An attack of this nature…is mere bidding for…military and political supremacy. It is a tactic to…inspire fear…not to obtain independence. Shanxi’s forces have fought…hard for two years…against Separatist factions…the fight has proved that the colony…is deeply politically divided. This attack would demonstrate to our enemy…and to our sceptics…that we would rather beat the…people into submission…than to let justice prevail.”

  Before anyone can retort, Oscar joins his brother and voices his own objections.

  “Having designed both Aglaopheme and Thelxiepeia, it is within my expert opinion, that neither of the ships have the functionality that the Chairman is suggesting. I have analysed the enhancements and can confidently say that they still yet possess the capability to launch the precision strike that has been outlined within the proposal. Even if it were possible, the negligence shown in calculating and accounting for external factors such as the planets orbital speed is troubling. If we proceed with this attack, there would be hundreds more civilian causalities than has been optimistically, all rather naively, predicted.”

  His remarks unsettle the board, forcing those harbouring any doubts to read back though the proposals. Alistair watches as his two younger brothers stand united against him. He had anticipated such a display. He eases back into his chair and lightly taps his hand closest to Sun Ren, signalling for her to intervene.

  “Neo-Shanxi will support the strike,” she raised her voice above the chattering. Wesley stares at her from the other end of the table, completely unsurprised at her collusion. “Shanxi has suffered many losses on Mu, and it is not the colonists who are resisting. The CERE have established many strongholds across the planet, stretching our forces thin. Every stronghold won, is another lost. This tireless back-and-forth has weakened our efforts to liberate the people of Mu, which increasingly puts Neo-Shanxi in a venerable position. To secure Mu would provide Loyalist colonies a buffer, forcing the war back to Brasil, a middle ground between Neo-Shanxi and Earth.”

  The tension runs high between the former comrades as the board are swayed once again with the promise of security. As he takes his seat, Oscar shakes his head disapprovingly at his eldest brother appalled at how he has pitted them against each other.

  Wesley slams his hand down, again frightening the board into silence.

  “You cannot simply…side step me.”

  Calm and collected, Alistair disagrees. “I am not side stepping anyone Brother. Just as I am the Chairman of Maia, I too am the Chairman of Neo-Shanxi. As much as I have an obligation to you as Maia’s general, I too have that same obligation to Shanxi’s. I have supported your efforts on Jotunheim, I am only extending my support for Sun Ren’s efforts on Mu. I am not seeking your approval, Brother, as it is a matter that has naught to do with you. If you have any objections, I shall respectfully listen,” he argued.

  The room feels small, and the board insignificant. Any objections presented today were always going to be inconsequential. Months of planning had gone into this. Battles staged and lost as an excuse to withdraw as many soldiers without arousing suspicion. He never indented Wesley to be here. Nor Oscar, who would have been blissfully unware distracted by his work on Eden.

  “That is not what is…going on here,” Wesley said. “You have used your…influence to totally disregard…what is right and what is wrong…so that the war can play out…as you see fit.”

  “It is not what I want, it is what is in the best interest for Mu and Loyalist colonies.”

  “You have been stuck…in this glass prison for…too long. What was the point…of this conference? To defuse accountability…amongst us all?”

  “As Chairman, I take full responsibility.”

  “You talk of some…common good. But all of this is little more than…revenge for Weishi,” Wesley said, instantly regretting his words.

  His brother’s cruel words cut deep. The weight on his heart hangs heavier. Even if he were to try and retort to the comment, his mouth would not allow him. His speech would splutter out as a whimper. At the head of the table, the board is insignificant and small, a mere inch that stands between him and Wesley.

  “I will take the Cyclothone to Mu…to spectate the orbital strike. It will be my soldiers…on the ground…securing the colony. The last thing those people…will want…is an army of Chinese…taking what is left of their home.”

  Without an apology, Wesley leaves with the knowledge that nothing he could have said would have changed the outcome of this meeting. The door closes and the board wait expectantly for Alistair to continue. But he doesn’t.

  “You are all dismissed,” Oscar instructed after a time.

  Many of the ministers refuse to move at first, but upon receiving a stern look from Oscar, they gather their things and make for the exit. As they shuffle off into the corridor, the two brothers catch the beginnings of their gossiping.

  On the glass ceiling, snow gathers, sliding off as and when it becomes too heavy to support itself on the smooth surface. In the giant and moon’s cosmic dance, Thule eclipses the sun. Darker and darker the long night will become. Colder and colder the temperature will dip.

  Jessica Jung

  “Uncle.”

  Jessica calls out trying to be heard over the congregating soldiers, all joining their squads so they may depart for the Cyclothone. As she squeezes through the gaps between them and hurdles over their duffle bags, she keeps her sights on her uncle as he makes his way towards a Grey Heron, it’s engines already warmed up and ready to launch. Again, she calls out getting louder the closer she gets. Hearing the encroaching voice, Li stops Wesley to draw his attention towards the direction of his niece.

  She does not allow him the opportunity to object and throws her arms around him, holding him in place so that he cannot escape. Jessica cannot hold back her tears of anger and loss. Her bottom lip quivers as she tries to get a grip on her emotions. A deep and long inhale gives her the composure she needs.

  “You were going to leave without saying goodbye,” she scolded.

  Even though she cannot see him nod, she knows that’s his answer. Never does he want to lie to her, and though that honesty sometimes hurts, Jessica always appreciates it. The countless broken promises and lies told by her father are far worse than the bitter sting of truth. She feels herself being effortlessly removed from him and he positions her at arm’s length. Wesley catches a tear before it can fall. His face maybe scared and disfigured, but Jessica has never seen her uncle any differently than the young man she remembers from when she was just a little girl. She knows the war has changed him, but deep down he is still the same man.

  Li takes both their bags and heads for the boat, giving them some privacy.

  “I am sorry…I did not mean to…upset you,” he said, and she instantly forgives him. “Do you know…where I am going?”

  “Off to fight the war,” she sniffed.

  He shakes his head. “I am done…with your father’s war.”


  “Then where are you going?”

  “Too help the people…of Mu. To help them…rebuild their lives once it is…all over,” he explained.

  Jessica is certain that she does not understand the difference between what her uncle is telling her and what her father says, however she knows they mean two different things. She takes his hand, and unsure of what to do next, she rests her forehead against his knuckles. Her lip trembles once again, no longer embarrassed by her public display of emotions, she allows herself cry.

  “After…I am coming back…for you,” he said with a comforting smile.

  Her uncle is always honest with her. Never would he lie. It is hard to believe such a promise, but Jessica knows he will honour his word. His smile is infectious, and she feels her mood lift.

  Without another word, her uncle turns and walks away. Not looking back once, he climbs into the Grey Heron and closes the hatch. She stands waiting, expecting to see him peering out from the small round window, but he doesn’t.

  Making her way back through the dwindling crowd of soldiers, she returns to the city, never looking back.

  White Dragon

  The old soldier in rusted armour leaves behind heavy footprints along the narrow shore between two worlds. A red hue bloodies one ocean. An aura turns the other into liquid gold. His journey has been long. Only now that he is completely lost does he know where he is headed. In the distance, at the end of the narrow shoreline, the red and gold clouds collide in a storm that only seeks to tangle itself.

  White scales sliver through the dense swirling clouds. A sharp spine cuts out its path. The sound of a thousand-dead scream in anguish. The beast smiles in only one corner of its impressive mouth. As an ant, the old soldier kneels before the dragon.

  ARE YOU COMMITTED?

  The skin on the soles of his feet has worn thin. The bones that hold him are but dried branches, ready to snap from the slights of pressure. Blood seeps from his ears on hearing the dragon’s roaring voice. The question rattles around the inside of his head, louder than the storm. Louder than the waves crashing against the shore. Louder than the shingle eroding to sand.

  Mu

  Wesley Jung

  “General, we will hit the EMNs in five,” a voice over the coms informed.

  Somehow the zip to his sleeping bag had come undone and Wesley finds himself slowly drifting through zero gravity. For a minute, he lets go of control and lays there motionless, taking solace in the stillness of space.

  The Cyclothone trails the sisters by a few hours. When they arrive in the system the battle to Mu will be over, and the strike should be about to commence. Only the conscience of Neo-Shanxi’s general can stop it now.

  The voice over the intercom announces they have two minutes remaining until the EMNs. Wesley reaches out for the wall, and with his figure tips manages to pull himself to the edge of the room. He uses the handles and fittings in the wall to propel himself toward a chair which looks out between the two shield-like wings of the ship into space. He fixes the straps tight and prepares himself for deceleration.

  From his pocket, he finds out the old tattered diary of the soldier named Wolf and holds it close to his chest. He has read and reread each line hundreds of times, and has translated the other two entries not written by Wolf’s hand. No one would believe what he has learnt. He can scarcely believe it himself.

  Over the years, he has recorded his own experiences of war in the blank third of the book. At first, they were ramblings of the Revolt on Maia and of Shanxi. As the war progressed, his thoughts became sceptical. He tried to rationalise what the soldiers of the diary and he himself had witnessed. He scribbled down notes of his waking nightmares in hope he could make a connection with those who had seen the dreams of red and gold before him. Then those musings became ideas. Her dying words began to make sense, ‘terror to prevent terror’, a peace won at the expense of invoking fear.

  The ship hits the first EMN. His body compresses into the chair. His face momentarily sags. Breathing becomes difficult. He closes his eyes and waits for the next EMN.

  Despite this principle of terror to prevent terror, his brother’s actions do not sit right with him. The strike on Mu does not share the same outcome. Peace cannot be won at the expense of the colony, it will only escalate to more violence. It is simply just terror.

  They hit the next EMN. A sickly tang sours the back of his throat.

  At first, he thought madness had taken him. Away at war for too long, the violence having corrupted his reasoning. While his own conscience is troubled, a clarity resides within that torment. These doubts regarding Alistair’s intentions have driven Wesley to outline a contingency. An initiative that will bring about the end of the war and prevent further tyranny at any expense. An operation dubbed ‘PeaceSeekers’. And at the heart of his plan is Jessica.

  The ship hits another net, then another, until the Cyclothone returns to its original speed.

  “EMR trajectory successful. Course plotted for Epsilon Nine. E-minus twelve hours,” the voice announced.

  Out from the window, penetrating through the endless black, a single star no bigger than a thimble shines through. No planets or comets, and no other distant stars. Just one lone white light burning bright. Wesley crooks his neck, then rests back down, hoping not to blackout.

  *

  His grandfather’s carrier ship is archaic and cumbersome, with much of its original design showing a complete disregard for the physics of space travel. Though much of it has been rectified and suitably updated, there are still many aspects of the ship’s functionality that frustrate the crew. The intent was to provide as many people with jobs, now it is an unnecessary requirement that endangers too many lives. A lack of fixtures for offensive capability is also a major oversight. Each restraint however means it must be staffed by the most qualified and experienced crew of any Loyalist or Separatist ship, a fact that comforts Wesley and, along with its history, is the reason he adores her.

  Each man and woman stationed at their post quickly acknowledge their general’s presence then resumes their duties. The command bridge is lined with rows of computers, each on different levels. The steps that were naively built in have been replaced by a slope with handles. The once empty ceiling has now been fitted with vital monitoring and regulating systems that had been installed in a different quarter of the ship, communications have also been centralised here.

  Wesley joins Li at the window as the Cyclothone passes Mu’s neighbouring planet, a ball of red sand that reminds them both of their home planet. The two friends say nothing as the small red rock passes them by. Despite the ship’s regulated temperature, the closer they get to the alien star, the warmer they feel. The glass adapts to the intensity of the light.

  A low rumble echoes through the hull of the ship, and the Cyclothone begins to steer off course. Alarms wail and the command bridge compete with the noise as they rectify the situation. Above them a blackened metal structure slowly pirouettes in the void. Wreckage from the Separatist fleet.

  “How did we not see that?” Li demanded.

  “Our sensors are functioning, yet they don’t appear to be reading anything,” one of the crew called back confused.

  Wesley groans. “The sisters…” he explained to Li, “Sun Ren is…trying to slow us…down.”

  Debris rattles against the Cyclothone as they cautiously manoeuvre through the remains of the battle. Decimated ships act as perilous obstacles. Frozen bodies drift lifelessly amongst the twisted metal. Emergency lights flash as power is lost in the surviving fragments. Wesley contemplates sending out rescue teams to scout for survivors, but ultimately knows it would be futile. Pilots use visuals to plot a safe passage, while technicians do their best to reboot the sensors. The alarms have been muted and everyone on the bridge holds their breath until they are through.

  There, a blue and white marble glistening in the star’s rays, Mu awaits them. Once a cold icy world, Mu is now covered in vast oceans with sheets of
ice that dwarf the tiny scattered islands. Each colony sits isolated from one another, either adjacent to a military base or a water treatment facility, the nature of which makes it difficult to launch successful ground assaults.

  Aglaopheme and Thelxiepeia have taken their positions, primed to begin the orbital strike. Even measured against Mu, the sisters are colossal.

  “Do you think history will forgive us?” asked Li.

  “No…”

  Simultaneously the sisters begin to orbit, counter to the spin of the planet. They cover leagues in little more than a minute. Blue sparks blister from the rail guns as they are charged. As they approach speed, their first target is almost in range.

  Without sound, the projectiles are launched.

  Igniting on contact with the atmosphere, burning streaks rain down pelting Mu’s oceans. Like a pebble thrown into a puddle, ripples race across the planet’s surface. Waves of immense magnitude engulf anything in their path. Water crashes against the tips of the highest mountain peaks. Ancient sheets of ice are broken up into sections no larger than the submerged islands. If the targets are not destroyed by the missiles, then the tsunamis have surely obliterated them.

  The sisters do not stop, their guns do not rest.

  Hours have passed and the two friends have not moved from the window. The strike has long since finished, but the oceans are still restless. No destress calls were received. No message of surrender. No boats fled the colony. No Separatist fleet came to save the stronghold. There is utter silence.

  Wesley knows what must come next. Many dangers await them, but he wants to be the first ones down there. He turns to Li.

  “Prepare…the Grey Herons.”

  *

  Wesley leans out of the hatch, and below the hoovering dual craft is a murky soup carrying the remains of people’s homes off in the receding tide. Lives swept away into the sea, erasing all traces of their attempt to find a sense of belonging on this new world. Few structures remain unscathed.