by Saxon Keeley
“The CERE wish to arrange a summit with you to discuss treaties outlining the manner warfare should be conducted in space,” he said. Then not allowing his brother to raise any objections, “Last night I arrived on Maia, escorting two CERE representatives promising them an audience with yourself. Though they were put out that the meeting could not be held last night, I think they were grateful for the good night’s rest. They are currently at the Crystal Castle, waiting for us to join them.”
“The CERE want to meet with me?”
His brother pinches a croissant from the plate and holds it up towards his mouth. Before taking a bite, he peers over the baked confectionary and stares down Alistair.
“I will wait for you to sober up and get changed,” he said with an insistent smile. As he sinks his teeth into the croissant, not a single crumb gets stuck to his lip, enjoying it with grace and dignity.
*
The two brothers say next to nothing as they leave the Lotus Gardens for the Crystal Castle. While Oscar looks slick in his long black coat, Alistair wraps himself up in bulky thick layers. In some way both brothers knew this meeting was an inevitability. Vague rumours of civilian massacres have found their way off Mu. Whole colonies found dead and left to rot. Unreliable reports emerged of renegade soldiers mercilessly killing, supposedly claiming revenge for Neo-Shanxi. Communication with Wesley has been difficult. Neither side knows what to trust.
Alistair defensively contemplates justifications for his army’s actions, sympathising with the sense of revenge that could have driven those soldiers to commit such heinous acts, only to realise the absurdity of such reasoning. He considers how best to distance himself from the atrocities, knowing full well they are a result of his orders. The past weeks have been steeped in guilt that he has tried to numb with drink.
When they arrive ministers and civil servants are gossiping about the two unusual guests sat waiting in one of the conference rooms, the walls left transparent so they know every move they make is being watched. A minister wedges himself between Alistair and Oscar, but before he can begin whispering in his ear, Alistair hands him his coat and thanks him for seeing to his outdoor garments.
The two representatives stand as the brothers approach the door. The man is Japanese, and likely a nationalist from Brasil. He is thin, with circular glasses and holds himself with self-made importance. The woman on the other hand is pale, stocky and could only be politely described as bubbly. The two could not be more different. She smiles at Alistair through the glass.
In the blink of an eye the walls become opaque. The room becomes sound proof. Trapping their guests inside, Alistair watches the door as he asked his brother, “What demands do you think they will ask of us?”
“Not demands,” Oscar tactfully reassured. “Concessions from both sides to make the war safer for the people. After Mu, the least you can do is to listen to their proposition.”
Feeling nervous for the first time in years, Alistair opens the door much to the two representatives’ relief.
“Oh, you had us worried there,” the bubbly woman joked. “Ni…hao,” she attempted, awkwardly bowing in a presumptuous effort to adhere to their customs. Alistair takes her hand and shakes it instead.
“Hello, please take a seat,” he smirked. “I’m sure my English is adequate to proceed with this meeting, there is no reason to needlessly complicate matters.”
“Yes,” agreed the Japanese man taking his seat. He pulls out two tablets from his antique leather briefcase and hands one over to Alistair. On the screen is a dense document of numbered clauses. Skimming the first few paragraphs he notes the emphasise placed on restricting dreadnought artillery. The representative picks up on his sudden defensive body language. “If you swipe over to the other file.”
A report opens. Photos and eye witness accounts have been collected from Mu retelling the murderous spree of soldiers with masks dressed in black. Although Alistair has seen similar images, they still manage to turn his stomach. As he flicks through the pages, he wonders how they managed to secure such sensitive material from a planet that is supposed to be under total control of the Loyalists. Regardless, the varying discrepancies in the accounts confirm their own intelligence and therefore responsibility can be disputed. Looking over a sufficient portion of each document, Alistair passes the tablet over to Oscar who beings flicking through.
“I expect nothing there is new to you,” the man said accusatorily.
“No.”
“Please be reassured that the CERE do not wish to point fingers,” the woman interrupted in a softer tone than her colleague. “Do not get us wrong, the day must come when accountability for this,” she paused, “this horror must be taken, but until then the CERE are seeking a path into the future which ensures this kind of catastrophic event does not occur again. We appreciate this is a new kind of warfare, with new experimental weapons, incidents like this were likely to occur. But it is vital that we learn from one another so that we may avoid irreversible mistakes which humanity will one day regret. Irrespective of the eventual outcome of the war, whichever side survives will be accountable to the people of the Charted Systems and the CERE wish only to ensure that there is a humanity worth fighting for once it is all resolved.”
“So, what is the CERE’s endgame here? An eventual truce?” Alistair ventured, confused by their ignorance or sheer disregard for what happened six years ago.
“No,” said the man.
“Not a truce,” the woman elaborated, “but an accord to impose regulations on the weapons and tactics used in a planet’s thermosphere, exosphere and in outer space. These regulations would of course be abided by the CERE, yourselves and any other third party intending on engaging in combat.”
Oscar leans forward in his chair, still reading and half listening. He itches his chin, mulling over each clause to check whether the CERE have worked in any loopholes. The proposals appear to be sincere enough.
“This would be a monumental step forward,” Oscar suggested.
“Yes, the first step forward in our relationship since the outbreak of this conflict,” the woman vivaciously agreed, her chin seeming to smile as much as her lips.
Peering over his brother’s shoulder, Alistair watches as Oscar highlights and jots down notes for further amendments. Almost each line has something to revise. After a long silence, Oscar realises they are all waiting on him.
“I’m sure there are many details in which both sides would want to discuss, but the core principles outlined are agreeable, yes?” the man asked.
Oscar gives his brother a nod.
“If we could receive a copy of the document, we can then dedicate the appropriate time.”
“Without question. We can send the original document and the one with your current notes,” obliged the woman. “A summit has been arranged on Brasil…”
“Why Brasil?” Alistair interrupted. His brother places a hand on his shoulder and without speaking tells him to calm down.
“Brasil is a central planet,” the thin man said in matter-of-fact. He checks the watch that is not set to the correct planet’s time zones around his bony wrist as a force of habit, keen to wrap thing ups. “It stands between Mu and Nibiru. Mu safeguards Neo-Shanxi, and Nibiru serves the same purpose for Earth. Since it is already a disputed colony, neither side is at an advantage. Would you rather the summit be held on Mu or Jotunheim?”
“No.”
“Excellent,” said the woman. “I have sent you both drafts and details of the summit. We meet in three weeks.” Her smile lingers making the brothers uncomfortable.
“Three weeks is not nearly enough time,” Alistair protested.
“The CERE felt that a swift solution to this dilemma would ease the people and give them back confidence in their governments. They hoped you would appreciate the pacey schedule.”
“It’s fine,” Oscar stood up. “Come, I’ll personally see you to your boat.”
Packing the tablets back into his leather
briefcase, the Japanese man does not break eye contact with Alistair. Malice daubs his face. Grinding his teeth. The long and bitter resentment between their two people was taught to Alistair as a child, but he has never felt that resentment. He has had to contend with the contradiction of his own heritage, learnt of the exploitation his home suffered, struggled with the unquelled hatred for those who raped and killed Weishi, but none of that is the same as how the Japanese man stares at him. Utter disgust.
Alexander Jung
Sunlight breaks over the colony, by this evening the planet will have warmed and the snow melted, but for now Maia is a romantic scenic remnant of the two-day freeze. The lake is still ice and along the surface blades have cut patterns of races and pirouettes, soon they will vanish. Veins and arteries form on the mountainside, channelling the fresh water down it’s back.
Alexander walks down the little stone path covered by snow between the graves, a path he has walked a hundred times before. Red columns poke out from the white sheet. Near the Revolt Memorial his grandfather rests. They never found his grandmother’s body, hideous stories surround her death all of which Alexander does his best not to believe, they instead placed a red column next to Charles’ in memorial of her. Though they died worlds apart, and Alexander has never given religion much thought, he knows they found peace with one another. Lifting a string necklace over his head, he holds out the black Go piece that cost him his only loss since playing his grandfather.
“Isn’t it funny how differently people remember you,” he said, knowing a simple truth behind a fabricated myth that even his father and the Chairman have conned themselves into believing.
Alone at the lake his cousin watches Maia’s landscape transform. A rumble echoes through the still air as a sheet of snow is dislodged and cascades down the mountain in a furious charge to reach the bottom, revealing the black rock underneath. Solid chunks bonce out from the snow wall denting and loosening more of the melting surface. He joins Nicholas at his side, mesmerised by the magnificent destruction commanded by nature’s forces.
“They say that it will be in our lifetime that rivers will begin to form the first of Maia’s oceans, imagine that. Wonder if they will freeze over like the lakes do? It is the reason why they built all major colonies where they did, in parallel with where ancient civilisations built their first great cities. A lot of calculated predictions and a little luck proved right for the most part. The canals were a well foreseen precaution,” Alexander mused aloud in a sophistication beyond his age. “Then our fathers came along and in their haste to bury the dead accidently got in the way. Now they are trying to divert the river with little consideration of those initial plans. Our fathers act with little thought for the future.”
Nicholas agreed, pleased to see someone else wrestling with the same quandaries. “They used to say they were doing all of this for us, but it is us that will have to pick up the pieces when they are gone. Our fathers are fools.”
Realising how closely their thoughts resonate with one another’s, Alexander is taken back by the bluntness of his cousin’s articulation on the matter, never having considered just how harshly he viewed his own father.
“The river will eventually erode this defence and nature will reclaim its destined path through the colony, whether it survives or not depends on how willing it is to adapt. Our fathers’ legacy is the same, history does belong to them and any trace they made will be washed away.”
Alexander doesn’t respond, though several witty one-liners do come to mind.
In the distance the avalanche begins to teeter out. The Go stone held tightly in Alexander’s hand reminds him of why he came searching for Nicholas in the first place. Broaching the subject carefully, he hopes the news will be gratefully received.
“Those boys, the seniors, the ones that cause you trouble. Well, they will be causing you trouble no longer,” he began. “I spoke with one of them the other night, he is a border too, he promised to leave you alone.”
“Do not,” Nicholas said flatly.
Alexander tried to continue, “He said something about leaving his little sister alone in exchange.”
“Stop!” and Alexander did. “I do not need to hear it. Those people think they are like you and me, but they are not. They do not get to make demands of us. We may be the same size as them now, but in time they will understand the gulf that separates our worlds. We do not need to entertain their petty requests.”
Stunned, Alexander stares at his cousin, never has he heard him speak so callously. There was little resentment in the way he said it, truly believing himself and Alexander above them all. Alexander goes to speak, but no sound comes from his lips. His mind runs blank.
“Our fathers leave today for Brasil. Did you know your father was back on Maia?”
He shakes his head and it is about all that he can do, overcome come by bitterness and rejection. Alexander would cry if he were in anyone else’s company. Locking his hurt away he maintains his composure.
Uncertain whether it was a cruel thing to tell him or an honesty too painful to bear, he wonders if Nicholas is playing a game with him, a game that only he knows the rules of. Perhaps he did so without intent, and just as the snow tore down the mountainside and the river rushes up against the stone defence wearing it down, Nicholas is as much a force of nature. Whatever it is, it has deeply unsettled him.
They continue to watch the sun rise until Nicholas shivers suddenly, reminding them of the cold.
White Dragon
Under each step, the ground is warm and soft. As far as the eye can see, a meadow of golden wheat sways gently in the breeze, tickling his bare-naked skin. The moon is already out in the reddening sky. Slowly the sun sets on this peaceful land. He follows a golden-eyed wolf through the endless meadow to a single tree that seemingly sprung into existence. Its trunk thick and branches stretch out like a thousand hands reaching for the light. Around the tree the wheat has been pressed down to form a perfect circle. Underneath sit two young girls both in red, their appearance so alike they could be mistaken for sisters.
The older girl, that could not physically be recognised as older but only understood to be older by mere intuition, stands to brush herself off. Golden pollen is taken by the wind. She waves goodbye to the other girl and approaches them. She does not fear the wolf, nor is she embarrassed by his nakedness. Confused the man looks to the wolf who bows his head.
In his ear, she whispered in his mother’s voice, “I love you.”
As if a river had burst its banks, tears come streaming down the man’s cheeks. Joy. Sorrow. Emotions elevated to heights he cannot comprehend. When he looks back up, the younger girl stand before him. The wolf had lead the older girl into the endless wheat. He searches the horizon but cannot find them.
A tug on his hand brings him deeper into the circle. The young girl forces him to sit with her under the tree. A puff of golden pollen rises as he lands on his bottom. She smiles. Her charming face lights up. Her features to one day flower into a beautiful woman. Her right eye missing, instead a black fleshy socket stares at him.
“I am waiting for you to return,” she sung, cuddling up to his arm. “I am waiting for you to return.”
Brasil
Wesley Jung
Wesley opens his eyes. A burning sensation lingers in his sinuses. He finds himself at the window looking out at the misty planet of Brasil.
Vast oceans divide great continents, though the pallid mist makes it impossible for the naked eye to see from orbit. Its only satellite is a small pale green moon. The planet hosts many colonies, all ethnically and culturally different from one another. Brasil is the most diverse planet bar Earth in the Charted Systems, and with that diversity comes conflict.
The green moon is not the only thing orbiting Brasil on this current cycle, it is joined by two sizable Loyalist and Separatist fleets. Armoured carrier ships hide in the shadows of dwarfing dreadnoughts. Most imposing of all are the Sisters, Aglaopheme and Thelxiepeia. Th
ere is enough firepower to obliterate the very planet they surround if something were to go wrong. Even in combat these ships have never been so close to one another. Everyone is nervous.
Impartial inspectors and officials are touring each of the ships, deciding what needs to be disarmed and dismantled according to the treaty that is soon to be signed. The Sisters’ railguns are already offline, a courtesy that was sure to relieve tensions between the two sides. These ships have only been active in the last few years, and quicker than they became relevant they are now relics of this war.
The hatch to his quarters slides open and Li pulls himself through. “General, you asked to see me?”
“Drop the…formalities.”
Li drifts through the room and takes his place next to his friend. The misty orb has a ghostly presence against the blackness of space, characterless and cold.
“Seeing all of those ships sure puts the war into perspective, does it not?”
Wesley agrees. “I can scarcely believe that…ten years ago all Neo-Shanxi had…was this carrier ship. It took decades for trade ships…to become common…throughout the Charted Systems…in no time at all…whole fleets of war machines have been raised. Has it ever worried you…that we have traversed space…in nothing more than…glorified public transport?”
In the six years, not once have either of the friends boarded the Sisters. They have had to redesign so many aspects of the Cyclothone, adapt to the ill-conceived living quarters and for a time make do with half of the original toilet facilities yet to be converted suitable for zero gravity. The absence of artillery has meant the ship posed little threat, yet made them vulnerable to attack. The Cyclothone was built in defiance, or ignorance, of the laws of physics, a testament to an idealist’s vision as opposed to pragmatism in the face of limitations. A feat of engineering of a man who dreamt of the future and not of someone who lived in it. Of a man who lived through a spectacular age founded by extraordinary individuals achieving only the imaginable, and could not bear not being one of them. But not once have they dared to board the Sisters.
