by Saxon Keeley
“No,” Li replied after a long pause. “I do not imagine you invited me here to take in the view.”
He nodded once. “I want to ask…you for a favour…not an order.” Li looks at him puzzled. “Well…two favours actually. Will you accompany Oscar…on the Aglaopheme? I would go myself…but it is best if we stay separate…for security reasons.”
Li agrees to his request, understanding the threat it would pose if any two of the brothers were in the same location. “Is Sun Ren with Alistair on the ground?”
“Yes…they will both be attending…the summit.”
“You know they will be down there. There was no way for the Separatists to know about the strike on Mu, but they knew. They will have followed us, if they are not there already. She has no idea of what she is up against.”
“Sun Ren is…protection enough,” Wesley unconvincingly said. “Mu was their choice…the fallout is theirs too.”
“They will both be killed.”
“I do not think…that would be the worst…outcome. Do you?” he asked, knowing Li shares his aversion for their former commander’s decisions. Before his friend can protest, he places a firm hand on his shoulder and reiterated, “Keep Oscar…safe.”
Squeezing his hand back Li gives Wesley an unwavering look, reassuring him that no harm will come to his brother. He is about to push off the glass and take his leave when he remembers there was a second favour.
From his pocket, Wesley pulls out the tattered diary and passes it to him. The sight of Wesley hunched over reading and writing in the diary is how his units have come to expect to find him. Anytime someone manages to sneak up on him, he slams the diary shut, looking like a child doing something they ought not to be doing. To simply be handed it over is disconcerting.
The pages are stained with age and blood. Foreign scribblings written in different hands fill the first half of the diary, then Wesley’s own hand slips between Chinese and English. Manic sketches of symbols and what look like military operations spill over the centrefold onto other pages.
“What is this?”
“A contingency…” Wesley said without any other hints.
“A contingency for what?”
“Read it…and you will understand. Until then…look after it.”
With diary in hand, he pushes off the glass and floats towards the hatch. A strange discomfort nags in the back of his mind. Looking back and forth between the diary and Wesley, he asked, “Why do you need me to look after this if you are staying here?”
“Dreams…of red and gold. The smell of cinders…rousing me from waking nightmares.”
“Dreams?” he questioned concerned his friend has gone mad.
“Dreams…”
Boats depart for Brasil. An army of ministers and bureaucrats head for the summit. He watches as the Grey Herons disappear into the misty planet, the punctured clouds instantly reform into its perfectly spherical shape. A great weight is lifted from him, it is too late to change the inevitable.
He makes his way to his armour. Black dented scratched metal, a reflection of his own skin. The worn dragon crawling down his helmet. The creature mimics Wesley’s permanent twisted grin. With the tip of his finger he draws the character ‘peace’ across the chest.
Alistair Jung
“Sir, wait up.”
The voice falls to the wind, though he heard it all the same. All he wanted was a moment alone to clear his head. He presses onwards through the eerie terrain. The fog is the thickest he has ever seen, or at least not able to see through. A bitter damp cold makes his teeth chatter. Strange hexagonal columnar form the cliff’s edge. Stopping on the right foot, Alistair stands on the precipice, waves crash below. White miasma swallows all.
“Sir?” the voice called out again.
He holds his breath. The air thick with moisture filling his lungs, chilling him from the inside out. A gale whips up the face of the basalt cliff and splashes Alistair with the briny ocean. For a split second, he was certain the mist cleared and beyond stood a city that reminded him of Neo-Shanxi’s skyline, yet somehow distinctly different.
Sun Ren and her squad finally catch up with the Chairman. She instructs them to stand guard. Her exoskeleton adjusts to the temperature along the cliff’s edge, her exposed cheeks however turn a rosy red.
“Thousands of years ago this planet was not unlike Earth, when my father stood on this cliff it was a barren rock. To have turned back time and see oceans fill these great valleys and canyons once again, wonder what he would have said if he could see it now,” he said with a great sense of pride.
“If he could see it,” she joked. “The Japanese call this planet Ryūgū-jō, they say it is like living underwater. Their people’s colony is just over the sea there, barely a stone’s throw away, but you would be lucky to see ten feet in front of you here.” Large drops land on her cheeks and above the clouds look indistinctively greyer than they would anywhere else on Brasil.
“Do you here that?” Alistair asked ignoring her.
Thousands of raindrops come sweeping across the sea towards them. In a fingers’ snap Alistair is drenched. Sun Ren’s armour rattles like a musical instrument. Rain bounces back up from the hard-rocky surface. He laughs fanatically at the elements, spinning around dangerously close to the edge whilst catching water in the palms of his hands. Every soldier moves in close in case they must dive in after him.
“Taiyi Shengshui brings the storm. This, general, is true power. Our father’s secrets remain with us, regardless of what happens today.”
“Yes sir,” she agreed, hiding her worry for the Chairman. This behaviour must be due to stress she decided. “We should be getting back. I would rather you not fall ill; the sooner the treaty can be ratified the sooner we can be off this planet and out of harm’s way.”
Knowing what she says to be true, Alistair leaves the cliff’s edge and leads the way back to the small colony where the two sides are currently finalising the details of the pact according to his advised amendments.
Between the hexagonal grooves of the columns water gathers, slowly draining into the sea. Even with the weather beating down on the mist, it is as thick as ever. Dim fog lights guide them back to the summit.
“Has Wesley disembarked yet?” she asked.
Alistair shakes his head. “It is for the best. My brother and I disagree on many things, he does so with such zest. To have him here would only complicate matters.”
*
The young pretty Italian assistant guides them through grand marble corridors. Her olive skin compliments her effortless beauty and as she turns around to check on him, she gives him a smile that makes him avert his gaze like a shy teen. She leaves behind a perfumed scent that is completely intoxicating. Alistair finds himself distracted and has long since given up on watching where they are going, instead he hopes Sun Ren has memorised their rout.
Loyalist and Separatist ministers crowd on opposite sides of the corridor, speaking their native tongues so to prevent eavesdropping, those from Maia do their best to practice their Chinese. Though there is a relatively small presence of soldiers within the building itself, two sizable armies are stationed in the colony outside and everyone can feel the tension mounting.
She leads them to two heavy wooden doors, imported from Earth, and turns the brass nobs swinging them wide open. The hall goes silent and they turn to watch the young Chairman enter. At the bottom of the steps and the focal point of the horseshoed room sit the CERE. They are not what Alistair had expected.
Old dignified men and women who wear the same unassuming expression as one another sit patiently, well, all expect the American representative who sports bleached hair, a glazed suntan which borders on sunburn and confidently wears a ghastly navy blue suit opposed to the professional black of the others. He beacons Alistair down as a drunk might at an office party embarrassingly call over a colleague they barely know in an inebriated overfriendly manner. Even the American, shocking as he was, did not fit Alist
air’s expectations.
Besides his own chair, one other seat remains empty. He had been informed that there were problems between the CERE and Middle Eastern Pact, none of his intelligence indicated just how divisive those disagreements had become.
The grandeur of the marble walls, wooden fixtures and golden trims comes as no surprise to Alistair. The Italians of Brasil have been an intermediary presence on the planet, disliking the Chinese as much as the idea of being governed by the Japanese. Not in any way neutral, they have done all they can for self-preservation securing an accord with the CERE to protect their culture and independence, the CERE however sees it as the prefect location to host conferences and negotiations beyond the immediate reach of Earth. This hall has seen in its relatively short time some of the most pivotal agreements signed within the Charted Systems, all largely concerning the trade of goods and raw materials. Today holds no less significance.
As he walks down the steps, Separatist ministers hiss and snarl. A look from his general is generally enough for them to stop, those who persist are silenced by the Speaker’s gavel.
The Speaker slams his gavel down once again and waits for the house to settle. One by one he introduces the CERE, when the American is introduced he waves in a celebrity fashion that Alistair and Neo-Shanxi representatives find bizarre. Everything about the man Alistair finds vulgar.
The proceedings are long and arduous. On occasion Alistair can feel himself drifting off. Coffee and tea are served at respective intervals, in which time he reflects on the layers of needless bureaucracy that serve only as obstacles. He had always found his grandfather too informal when it came to issues of state, but feared he invented paperwork for the sake of it, if this meeting has done anything it has reassured him that he has indeed found a happy medium.
Over the course of the session only a few ministers had to be escorted from the hall, the Speaker did well to suppress any insurrection from either the Loyalist or Separatist officials.
Eventually Alistair is invited to take a seat on the empty desk between himself and the CERE. Two hefty red and gold folders lay there. The American representative struts over, pulling out a chair for him. Receiving a vigorous nod and a slap, rather than a pat, on the back Alistair takes his seat. From over his shoulder the pretty young Italian assistant appears turning to the first page he must sign. The pen glides so smoothly across the paper. She flicks over to the next page to be signed. Signature after signature, until the scribbles no longer make sense.
About halfway through the folder she draws closer, he can feel her breath against his neck. At first, he is disappointed that she is not looking at him but hiding from the American’s lecturous gaze. He feels a sense of guilt having behaved no differently in the corridor, reminded of the stories his grandfather would tell him and his brothers of the Taotie. An ugly creature that is the embodiment of greed.
The lasts of the signatures are signed and the two men let out a sigh of relief. Alistair stretches out his fingers for them only to be taken by the American in an excessively firm handshake. He can hear his joints pop. Bright flashes blind him, while the American used to the media attention laps it up.
“You will stay the night Chairman Jung and have a few drinks,” he said through his fixed pearly white grin. “It would be a matter of good faith while the ships are being disarmed. We’ve done our work, let the boffins do theirs.”
Alistair remains silent, waiting for the cameras to stop flashing.
“Come on, you have just as many soldiers on the ground as we do. Besides, it beats sleeping up there in those tin cans. It is never the same as sleeping horizontally.”
“There is no horizontal in space,” Alistair corrected.
Not having listened to the reply, the American would have taken any response that wasn’t an explicit and convincing ‘no’ as a ‘yes’. He wraps his arm around Alistair as if they were old-school buddies and ushers him out of the hall.
“I know you need a stiff drink as much as I do.”
He tries to wriggle himself out from the unwanted contact, the slippery hand always managing to find its way back onto his shoulder. Seeing his discomfort, Sun Ren pushes passed the other members of the CERE and yanks the American away from Alistair. The moment she places a hand on the American’s blue suit she is held at Separatist gunpoint. She picks up the whiff of sulphur from the barrel, a weapon used up until recently. The soldier had been pulled from the conflict to act as security for this purely symbolic meeting of politicians, like her he is itching to return to the fight. She lets go of the suit jacket, not wanting to give him any more of a reason to pull the trigger than she already has.
The American bushes himself off, his shock curdles into a false smile.
“Whoa, whoa!” the American eased the soldier. “Now don’t get ya panties in a twist. You’ll upset our guests here.”
The term ‘guests’ does not sit well with either Alistair or the general, though neither of them are willing to dispute the semantics at this current moment. Slowly he steps towards her, silently thanking her for the hasty intervention. The other members of the CERE watch the conduct of their counterpart in dismay.
“Thank you for the invitation and to display ‘good faith’ I will stay the night, but as for the drink, I will abstain,” Alistair diplomatically refused.
“Ah,” the American clocked the shared look on his and Sun Ren’s faces and laughed to himself. “Got ya. Women eh? All the same! White, black or yellow, it doesn’t make any difference,” he joked to no one’s amusement, the CERE shrink into the background so to disassociate themselves.
Sun Ren bites her tongue. Her cheeks flash red as her blood boils. Her contempt for the American overwhelms any rational thought.
Alistair grabs her by the wrist, stopping her from reaching for her pistol. The Separatist soldier and the CERE all standby ready to react accordingly. The American stands heedlessly waiting for someone to acknowledge his joke.
A relieved sigh and an agitated huff comes from the CERE, and the British representative steps out of formation to escort their fellow representative swiftly away. The manner in which the American is appeased would be considered patronising by anyone else, but the American is flattered to receive the attention. In a separate direction, Alistair walks out consoling his general.
“The bar is open all night if you feel like joining us,” the American called out across the hall.
*
“Chairman. Get up.”
Alistair stirs in his bed, rolling over to bury his head in the pillow next to him. A cold hand on his shoulder shakes him awake. As his eyes focus he finds Sun Ren crouched over him. Her tank top speckled in blood. In her other hand, she holds her rifle steady in the direction of the door. She keeps shaking him until he sits up. Before he can ask any questions, she holds his mouth shut and the two listen as gunshots sound from down the corridor.
“We have to go.”
Alistair searches the room for his clothes. Barely dressed he reaches for his shoes at which point Sun Ren instructs him not to. She holds a finger over her lips then points at her shoeless feet. The floors are marble and they would create a racket if they were forced to make a run for it.
A scream is cut short, this time closer than the previous sound of gunfire.
“What is going on?” he quietly demanded.
“The CERE are dead. Killed in their sleep. Soldiers in black and blue are executing both Loyalists and Separatists.” Another gunshot, another minister dead. Sun Ren forces him to stay low. “Stay close. Stay quiet. I am going to get you out of here.”
The neighbouring room is breached, the lock shot through, and the occupants put up a fight buying Sun Ren and Alistair precious time. At first, she opens the door no more than a crack and then opens it wide enough to peer into the corridor. The struggle is still going on and the soldier making their way to Alistair’s room is brought in for backup. A clear path. She darts out making her way to the end of the corridor all the while pu
shing Alistair along by the collar of his shirt making sure he keeps up with her pace.
One of the occupants of next door lunges out of the room, landing so their top half is lying flat against the cold marble floor and their bottom half is already being dragged back in by the clutches of the bug-eyed soldiers. Their pitiful struggle ends abruptly by a bullet in the back of the head. The contents of their head leak out onto the hard surface. Alistair watches as the body is drawn back into the room in one brisk motion. This is not an assassination, he thought to himself, this is a massacre.
Not looking where he is going, Alistair bumps into the back of Sun Ren. He is about ask why she has stopped when he looks straight ahead and realises that their luck is at an end. From one the of bedrooms a soldier in black and blue steps out in front of them. Around his armband is an image of two dogs. The soldier, as if he could smell their fear, turns his head to face them. In the eyes of his gasmask they watch their own reflections, consumed by terror.
Sun Ren squeezes the trigger.
A loud shot rings through the corridor. All the soldiers are immediately alerted to their position. Smoke rises from the punctured glass. Blood sprayed on the pristine marble walls. Dogs falls to the floor like a puppet being cut from its strings.
A howl comes from inside the room.
Sun Ren forces Dogs’ rifle into Alistair’s hands and tells him to run. Bullets graze his skin and whirl passed his ear as they make for the end of the corridor. Behind something other than human chases after them.
He had not noticed before because of the panic but from the windows that run along one side of the hallway he can see the two armies locked in a fierce battle as they resume their ongoing conflict for the colony. Though he cannot see much through Brasil’s mist, an orange hue lights up the night sky. Small bursts of light are followed by the crackle of gunfire. From the air, Grey Herons are shot down by Separatist fighter vessels crashing down as blazing wrecks. How he could have slept through such chaos was beyond him.
