by Saxon Keeley
Around the colony, more Grey Herons prepare to drop off soldiers. His idea of a search and rescue seems like a frivolous exercise. Determined not to let his doubts get the better of him, Wesley jumps down into the water.
Up to his chest, the water is ice cold and his exoskeleton is all that prevents him from going into shock. Each of the soldiers that follow their general’s lead plunge into the same icy surprise. Their thick armour weighs them down, however is the only thing stopping the floating debris from impaling them. Holding their rifles above their head, Wesley’s squad struggle against the tide deeper into the remains of the colony.
Torch lights scan the water, revealing the corpses amongst the drifting rubble. The colonists did not die from the missiles, but were killed by the waves that hit this island. Safe for decades from the violently temperamental changes brought about by terraforming, this colony high above sea level is completely flooded.
“Jung, what do you see?” Li asked over the coms.
“Death…”
A long silence follows.
“Should we collect the bodies?”
The corpse of an old man passes Wesley by. His skin pale. His last moments of fear are etched across his face. A man who left Earth to seek something greater. Perhaps fortune, a new beginning, or perhaps to escape the eternal petty conflicts of nations and races. A man who wanted better for his wife, sons and daughters.
“They will be lost to the sea otherwise.”
Finally, Wesley gave the order. “Collect the dead…gather their bodies…and when the water is drained…we shall lay them…to rest.”
“Sir,” confirmed both his squad and Li over the coms.
Atop a high mound of rubble, Wesley takes a short rest from pulling bodies out from the water. Drips run off his scratched and dented armour. His helmet lays beside him, the dragon worn down only just identifiable.
On the horizon day begins to break. The sky becomes washed with pinks and purples. Wesley has not seen a more beautiful dawn. Islands that were submerged and cloaked by the night, emerge once again.
Higher up on the mountain side, overlooking the rest of the colony, is the military base. Thick concrete walls allowed it to survive the tsunami that devastated the rest of the island. From one of the windows, Wesley catches the faintest flash of light. A shadowy form approaches the window, and despite the distance, he is convinced they are looking straight at one another.
Wesley slips away from his squad unnoticed. He makes his way through the debris which has gathered in the streets. Now the water barely reaches his knees. Collapsed structures obstruct his path, redirecting him through the buildings themselves, forcing him to be weary of sudden pitfalls which once had led to basements.
Inside the base, a shallow puddle covers the ground floor. Water runs out from ventilation shafts and displaced ceiling tiles rattling against his helmet. Fixtures have been ripped from the walls. Furniture carried down the corridors. Heavy doors have been busted open. Storerooms have been raided, all the weapons, equipment and rations have all been taken. There is nothing useful left. Having assumed this would be a refuge for the colonists, there is no one here.
Wesley methodically searches the ground floor with his grip firmly around his Dragon Crescent. On the other side of an upturned desk, the water is stained red. He does not consider radioing for help and goes on alone. Cautiously he treads further, following the bloodied watery trail.
For six years Wesley has heard only rumours of the soldiers dressed in black and blue slaughtering needlessly across the battlefield, of colonies raised to the ground and important personnel murdered in their own homes. Neither side willing to accept responsibility for the atrocities.
As he climbs the stairs draped in blood, the sound of execution startles him. Great fear, anger and zeal contractively swirl at the pit of his stomach. Those who raped his home, molested and killed his family, may be the ones who hold the means to foil the tyranny that is to befall the Charted Systems.
A young blonde woman drags herself over to the wall. Her once pristine white blouse caked in the blood of her colleagues, friends and family. She cowers in a ball, holding a red palm out to ward off the salivating creature. Its growls are hungry. Its paws squelch with every step. Following behind the four-legged beast is a soldier, his movements hung and animalistic. Dressed in black and blue, the soldier’s bug-like eyes possess a feral glint. He growls the same harrowing noise, though filtered through his mask. An image of two dogs are embroidered on the blood-soaked armband.
Her wails are hysterical, confused as to why their saviour has turned against them. The solider aims his rifle. As she flinches, she sees Wesley coming up the stairs. Her sudden calmness draws the dog’s, then the soldier’s, attention towards him.
Wesley drops his gun as Dogs aims his.
“Do not…shoot,” said Wesley. “Terror to…prevent terror…I am committed.”
Dogs tilts his head and inspects the white dragon on Wesley’s helmet, then sniggers at the sentiment. Still fixated by the dragon, Dogs begins to howl with laughter.
A single shot is fired, ringing in the room of dead bodies.
The woman’s pleading has stopped. Wesley gazes into her fading blue eyes. The force of the bullet had momentarily pinned her to the wall. Her chin begins to fall to her chest. Smoke expels from a hole in her head.
Pleased with his resolve, Dogs nods farewell to the White Dragon. The soldier in black and blue and his four-legged pet disappear off into the facility.
“Jung,” Li said over the coms, “we heard a gunshot from your location. Is everything alright?”
Wesley stands there, surrounded by executed colonists.
“Jung?”
“There is…nothing here. Negligent discharge. Carry on…”
BRASIL AGREEMENT
Maia
Alexander Jung
“Is that the guy?” Jack Madison asked as he takes the seat next to Alexander on the common room’s clean but well-used sofa.
Alexander gives a subtle nod. He leans forward and watches the seniors from across the room. While the others mess about at the games table throwing pieces at one another, the ‘ringleader’ plays his opponent with intense deliberation. Unlike his opponent, he moves the stones in the correct manner, between his middle and index finger. Placing each stone down with respect for the game.
“Him and his friends jumped Nicholas again today? You know that he could easily beat-up the both of us,” said Jack.
“I’m not looking for a fist fight,” Alexander reassured his friend.
“So, what is the plan then? I don’t think he’s the reasonable sort.”
“No,” Alexander smiled. “I’ll do the only thing I can do, wager a bet.”
“You’re going to play him in the hope he’ll honour a bet?” Jack scoffed.
Alexander turns to his friend with a self-assured grin. “What’s there to lose?”
Jack raises an eyebrow not convinced by Alexander’s confidence. Following his foolhardy friend, he readies himself for when it all goes south.
As they approach the table, the gang of seniors stare at them gormlessly. Their leader ignores them, not allowing their presence to interrupt his move. Assessing the board from over the opponent’s shoulder, Alexander is quick to readjust his arrogance seeing it won’t be the easy match he had anticipated.
A white stone flicked at Alexander’s temple bounces off and lands on the board disrupting the played pieces. The gang’s mocking laughter is silenced by a single glare from their leader. Now forced to acknowledge his presence, the senior stops the game and turns his attention to Alexander.
“What do you want Jung?”
“I want to play you at Go,” he said, rubbing his temple.
The senior grunts dismissively. “Tough, I am already in a game. Get lost.”
His friends try to force Alexander and Jack away from the table. Holding his ground Alexander shakes them off.
“I want to play for stakes
,” he said, piquing the senior’s interest. “If you win, I’ll do your chores until you graduate.”
The senior laughs amused at the childish wager. “And what do you get if I lose?”
“You leave my cousin Nicholas alone.”
The others let them go and back away. Not appreciating being manhandled, Jack straightens himself up and re-joins Alexander’s side. With a simple wave of the hand, the senior’s opponent removes himself from the table and the pieces are collected from the board. Alexander takes a seat and gets comfortable for a long match. With the last stone removed, the senior gestures to the two bowls.
“Black or white?”
Wearing a blank expression, Alexander dares not to give away his game plan. The senior waits with an equally un-telling look. Despite the game of mental chicken Alexander does not allow himself to second guess his opening strategy, the concept of ‘chicken’ having been introduced to Alexander by the Westerners of Maia and a notion by which people know the meaning of but have lost the sense of understanding as most people on Maia have never actually seen a chicken. Eventually he chooses, placing his hand over the preferred stones.
“White.”
“My move first then,” said the senior, retrieving his bowl and laying down the first stone in the upper right corner. The game has begun.
Stone after stone, whites are laid after blacks. They carry the pieces over the board between their fingers. Cautiously the corners of the board fill with stones, both players follow dìngshì to keep the opening flow.
With many a match lost to his friend, Jack keeps up with the game as best he can. Pieces are lost as territory is gained. Each side suffers gruelling losses. Minutes pass quickly into hours. They play until neither side can capture any more territory and their bellies hurt.
The senior leans back on his chair, crooking his neck so he can read the time. The corridor is dark and the whole building is quiet. He lets out an exhausted yawn when he realises how late it is. “We missed dinner,” he said at the end of the yawn.
“I wondered what that pain was in my stomach,” said Alexander, only to receive a comical look of disbelief from Jack who had wearily spectated the game.
“I’m sure they’ll have some soup left over. They always do.”
Alexander agrees, then brings their attention back to the game. “We should tally up.”
“Why?” the senior asked to Alexander’s surprise. “We both know you won.”
Alexander fails to hide his smugness and watches as the senior leaves the table. Before he reaches the door, Alexander remembers the whole purpose of playing.
“What about our wager?”
The senior stops. He doesn’t turn around fully and doesn’t look at him directly. Despondency overcomes him, a feeling that permeates both Alexander and Jack.
“Fair is fair. I’ll leave your cousin alone, but tell him to stay away from my sister,” he requested. “Family is the most important thing in life, isn’t it? I just want her to be safe.”
His bullish aggression now seems like noble behaviour, trying only to keep his sister from harm. A sentiment that Alexander can empathise with. He sees no need to pry further and lets him leave. While reflecting on their match, Jack counts and recounts the scores. His bemused dithering begins to irritate Alexander.
“What’s wrong?”
“You lost,” Jack informed him.
“But…” Alexander stopped himself. Holding up a black stone to the light, he smiles. Not since his grandfather has anyone managed to best him. He places the stone in his pocket as a memento.
Alistair Jung
His head hung low over a cup of tea, inhaling the bitter aroma, Alistair lets his mind clear from last night’s drink. Though his recollection of the evening is fuzzy, he tries to account for every drink he had. After the fourth, events get hazy. A groggy ache muddles his head. Even though he is showered, his skin feels clammy. His insides burn raw. His mouth won’t retain any moisture regardless of how much water he drinks. On Maia, the hangovers seem to be worse, but the morning cures are heartier. If only the cupboards were stocked with food.
Footsteps come prudently down the stairs of the entrance hall. One of his children attempting to move about the house without waking him. He waits to see if they come into the kitchen, making no endeavour to alert them to his presence. The front door closes with a loud unexpected slam. Alistair makes his way to the window and watches as Jessica scurries off down the snowy garden path. She doesn’t look back to the house once.
Another set of footsteps shortly follow. This time they try to sneak into the kitchen.
“Father?” Nicholas said surprised.
Alistair greets his son with an obligatory smile and invites him to take a seat. With one eye on the clock, watching the second-hand tick slowly around the face, Nicholas reluctantly does as he is told. A second cup of tea is poured and the two of them sit opposite one another. Alistair’s stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly, he places a hand over himself in hope it may stop.
“I’m sorry. It doesn’t look like we have any breakfast. I’ll be sure to…” Alistair began before being interrupted.
“Father, you are talking English,” Nicholas said.
“I am sorry. It is all that time I have spent with my ministers.”
“It is fine Father, you do not need to keep apologising,” he said. Desperate to leave for school, Nicholas gulps down his tea, scorching the roof of his mouth.
Alistair notices his son wincing and tries to lighten the mood by telling him a story. “Great-Grandfather would tell me and your uncles about the Taotie whenever we ate too much or drank too quickly. He would explain that the Taotie was a warning against power and wealth. ‘Greed is not befitting a leader,’ he would say. ‘Instead he must share his fortune with his people.’” He looks down at his cup and sighs. “Grandfather was always good at telling stories.”
“I know Father, you always tell me so,” his son apathetically agreed. He glances up at the clock again. “I have to go now or I will be late.”
“What about breakfast?” Alistair asked knowing he can’t do much about that anyway.
“They feed us breakfast at The Academy,” he said, springing up from the chair and making a dash for the door.
Just as he is about to call goodbye, the front door slams shut. The sound ricochets about the inside of his skull, his whole-body trembles in agony. From one of the cupboards he finds some pain relief and swallows the tablets down with tea. Hunched over again, he waits for them to kick in.
Keys jangle as the front door opens. Boots are kicked against the outside wall to shake off the snow. The door is left open for too long and a chill is sent through the house.
“Hello? Ni hao?” the nanny’s voice called out.
“Your late,” Alistair scolded, coming out from the kitchen.
She rolls up her sleeve and pretends to look at her watch. With faint dismissal, she shrugs her shoulders and hands him a paper back full of slightly frozen baked goods. The smell alone is enough to forgive her.
“Where are the children?”
“Gone,” he said bluntly. “Your services won’t be needed today, I can manage on my own.”
She glares at him offended. “I’m still getting paid for the day, right?”
“Of course,” he mumbled, walking away with the baked goods.
With a squeaky huff, she waltzes back out the front door. Again, with a slam. Alone and with breakfast at last he returns to the kitchen to warm it up. With comical timing that only frustrates Alistair, the doorbell rings. Convinced she has not forgotten anything, Alistair readies himself to quarrel over keeping the breakfast for himself. Opening the door, he finds Oscar waiting. The cold does not seem to bother him, their father’s coat wrapped around him. He waits casually as if he were here on a social call, but Alistair is not that naïve.
Letting his brother in, he directs him to the kitchen where finally he can sit down to something to eat. Another tea is poured ou
t and the baked goods are placed under the grill. A homely buttery smell fills the room. Both know it’s not real butter, and neither would ever know the taste of real rich creamy butter.
“You look like you had a late night,” Oscar said patronisingly. He cradles his tea, the cup warm in his hands. Even though the coat, and it’s attached gloves that are now neatly tucked away in the inside of each sleeve, shield against the cold, the snow that blankets the colony is enough to make one think they ought to feel cold. “I came to see you last night, but Nicholas said that you had not returned home yet. You were not in your office either.”
“No,” was all Alistair would give as an explanation. “Are you not supposed to be on Mu making modifications to the TFP?”
“I was,” Oscar rolled his eyes, not appreciating the change of subject. “Then I got word that Sun Ren had taken Brasil’s TFP, I considered it an apt opportunity to make some adjustments to theirs in hope to win over colonists by scientific benefit, rather than by force.”
Alistair shrugs then retrieves the now golden crisp baked goods from under the grill. He severs them on a plate in the middle of him and his brother. ‘Vegan’ is what was written on the packaging, a term Westerners use on Maia to describe all their food, neither of them have ever known any different. Curiously he inspects the sweet smelling flaky crescent.
“It is called a croissant,” his brother said mildly annoyed. “Anyway, on my arrival I was imminently approached by soldiers who came bearing a message from the CERE. Apparently, they were supposed to deliver the message to Maia, but were obstructed by Sun Ren. Unofficially of course.”
“What was the message?” he asked, biting into his croissant, flakes sticking to his lips.
Oscar watches his brother make a mess over the counter. He waits from him to swallow his mouthful, in case the news chokes him.
“Well?”
