by Saxon Keeley
A glass panel shatters and he is reminded of the imitate danger they’re in. Sun Run, who has made it to the end of the next stretch of corridor, signals frantically for him to keep up. As he catches up, his feet clap against the hard surface. Paws scutter around the corner as the creature pursues. Briefly glancing behind, Alistair can only make out a dark furred four-legged shadow bearing its stained yellow teeth.
Knelt at the creature’s height, Sun Ren stares down the sight of her rifle. She waves the muzzle and Alistair strafes to the left giving her a clear shot. The opportunity is taken and the creature goes down with a thud. In its final moments, the hound whimpers.
Still running for his life, Alistair can hear the soldiers following. His general lays down covering fire and a deafening exchange shakes him to his very bones. His knees become weak, his legs turn to jelly. He cannot tell what is happening behind him but in front the rest of the window panes are shot out and shards cover the floor. Putting his foot down ready to make a heroic leap for the end of the corridor, he lands on glass embedding itself deep into the skin.
Alistair’s leap turns into a haphazard tumble. His body slides towards Sun Ren who drags him around the corner to safety. While she fends off their pursuers, Alistair inspects the sole of his foot to find blood gushing out from around a glistening transparent chunk. The sight of which makes him feel queasy.
“Pull it out and let us go,” she ordered. He is about to refuse her instruction when she gives him a look that even he cannot contend with.
He cries out in pain from the raw sting of him forcing his thumb and finger either side of the glass shard, too smooth and slippery to get a proper hold of. On the first yank, nothing comes out. Again, he reaches into his own foot. The second time the pain is worse. Pulling slowly this time he removes the shard. Between his thumb and finger it looks so insubstantial.
There is no time to dwell on such things, and on realising the shard is out of his foot Sun Ren pulls him to his feet. They flee through the grand marble halls becoming hopelessly lost, leaving a bloody trail to follow.
Each open door they come across a ghastly scene of murder awaits them. Knowing they cannot out run the soldiers in black and blue, Sun Ren leads them into one of the open bedrooms and locks the door. She warns Alistair to stay quiet while she inspects the room for anything to use or any way to escape.
Alistair perches himself on the dresser and attempts to rip off his sleeve so that he may wrap his bloody foot, but no matter how hard he tugs the shirt remains intact. Upon giving up he then notices the couple lying dead in the bed. They seem at ease, sleeping in one another’s arms. The sheets and pillows have become saturated.
The brief respite comes to an end with a bang on the door. Sun Ren waves him over to the opened window and points down at the drop. Much to his relief she takes the gun from him and positions herself by the ottoman to cover the door. He judges the distance between him and the ground and decides to hang off from the window ledge before falling. As he lets go the bedroom door is breached and Sun Ren opens fire.
His landing is broken by the soft soil of a barren yet optimistic flowerbed. The dirt gets deep into his wound but the pain no longer fazes him. He knows what he must do, and that is to run. Seconds later Sun Ren drops down from the window with a more graceful landing than himself. Together they head into the mist, careful not to give their position away.
Wesley Jung
News of the violent outbreak comes to Wesley as no surprise. He had been waiting for it. The Separatists must have received the same message from their people on the ground as their fleet begins to disperse, distancing themselves from the Loyalist fleet. Requests for reinforcements have been denied by the general, boats attempting to leave or enter the atmosphere are being shot down, it would be a needless waste of human lives. Their orders are to hold defensive positions until further notice. Despite the pleas, Wesley stands firm on his decision.
Havoc unfolds on the command deck of the Cyclothone as reports come flooding in.
“Sir, we have confirmation that Commander Li has secured the Aglaopheme.”
“Good…order them to withdraw,” he said calmly. “Is there an update…on Alistair’s status?”
“A squad has found them escaping the summit, they are requesting immediate pick up.”
“No…”
Wesley watches as the Aglaopheme pulls away from the fleet, leaving its sister behind. An enormous empty space is left for other ships to navigate though.
“Sir! I’ve picked up an unusual reading.”
Pushing himself off from the glass Wesley makes his way over to the control panel. He stares at the screen blankly waiting for his officer to explain what they are looking at. Whatever it is, it is headed towards them at an unprecedented speed.
“E-minus two minutes?” the officer said uncertain. “The object has come from the EMR’s line of trajectory.”
“Get us out of the…way of that thing. Evacuate…the ship,” Wesley commanded.
“Evasive manoeuvres,” yelled one of the pilots, pulling a leaver to sound the alarms.
Every personnel on board the carrier ship drops what they are doing and prepares for evacuation. Sleeping compartments are sprung open and wailing sirens wake the heaviest of sleepers. Blinking red lights direct them to the nearest available Grey Heron. Each boat is filled to maximum capacity. Superior officers account for each of their subordinates before boarding themselves. Those on the command deck stay to transmit distress signals to the remaining Loyalist fleet ensuring no boat is left adrift.
“Sir, you need to leave,” said one of the officers.
“So do all…of you.”
The officer shakes his head. “Once that thing hits us, all automated systems will be knocked offline, or worse. We need to stay and keep things operational for as long as possible. There are too many souls still on board.”
“But…” Wesley began, then looked at the determined faces of all those around him. Not even one falters in their resolve. A great sense of pride fills him having served with such noble men and women. He stands to attention and salutes the deck.
“E-minus one minute.”
“Sir, you must hurry.”
Through the main body of Cyclothone Wesley falls with pace. In his head, he continues the countdown until impact. Each floor he passes is empty, filling him with confidence that the crew have all manged to escape and the command deck’s sacrifice has not been in vain.
Red lights blink. Alarms wail. Everything else is still. Then darkness.
He opens his eyes to a trail of sheening blood that drifts away from a cut on his head. A cold, that feels more like an absence of warmth, chills him inside places he never knew could get cold. He can no longer hear the sirens, just a sharp penetrating ring.
His whole body is numb, and if it were not for a slight twitch in his right hand he would assume he was paralyzed. Some ribs are cracked placing an immense stain on his lungs. His breathing is short and excruciating. The air even fills thinner.
Suspended in the dim emergency lighting of the Cyclothone he can sense the ship being pushed towards Brasil. The ship creeks as it twists, contorts and splits. She was never made to get this close to a planet’s gravitational field.
Using all that he has left in him, Wesley drags himself through the shaking hull. With each tremor, he writhers in pain. He coughs up the blood filling his lungs. His vision begins to blur. Still he presses on.
The Cyclothone is driven closer towards the planet and the ship rattles him about like dice in a cup. Wesley lets out a bloody roar.
Another jolt shakes the ship. This time however he does not crash against the wall, before Wesley even knows what has happened he see the Cyclothone from the outside.
Silence.
Splits rip open the Cyclothone. Three massive talons puncture his grandfather’s ship. The vessel behind forces her down to the point she can no longer escape the planet’s gravitational influence. She begins to break up into
smaller pieces. The vessel releases its grip so that it is not dragged down with the Cyclothone and fades off into the black.
His heartbeat is faint, pulsating in his ear increasingly slower. A smile is brought to him, having known his part in all this would come to an end sooner rather than later. As nothing more than a speck he falls towards Brasil. His body busts into flames of red and gold, engulfing the scorched twisted grin upon his face.
Maia
Jessica Jung
‘I am waiting for you to return, I am waiting for you to return. I am dreaming of your return, I am dreaming of your return.’
Downstairs their nanny lays passed out on the sofa, again before she could make them dinner. Taking the basics of cooking that she had learnt from her uncle, Jessica managed to whip up a noodle soup which she brought a bowl of up to her brother before retiring to her room. Immensely pleased with her effort she ate the meal to some of her uncle’s favourite tracks before tidying her bedroom. She collects her clothes from the floor and begins to place them neatly away in the wardrobe. Hanging up one of her school shirts, she then flicks through the hangers until she places a hand on her mother’s black cheongsam. The dress holds so much sorrow and yet so many happy memories of her childhood. Holding it close her mother’s perfume still lingers, but the warmth of her body has long since been lost.
‘Wait until you come back, let me show my love. Wait until you come back, you dismiss my love.’
The scent of her mother is Shanxi. No one on Maia smells this beautiful. It is a place of memory, no longer real for her. It is a place where families sit around the table and have dinner with one another; go for long walks in gardens filled with stunning blossoms; of grand and mythical stories told by her great-grandfather; of the inconsequential tomfoolery of her uncle, always in trouble but always loved for it; and of watching her mother, a powerful and dutiful woman, apply her makeup before heading out for an important meeting. A place she was happy. What Jessica would give to see her mother once again.
“Why don’t you return, why don’t you come return. I have to wait for your return, I have to wait for your return.”
Undressing in front of the mirror, Jessica strips down to her underwear. She pulls her mother’s dress over her head and lets it fall over her body. Although the dress is still too big for her, she is amazed at how petite her mother was. Her hands run down the sides of the dress to straighten it out. The silver dragon sparkles in the light. Enraptured by her own reflection she does not realise Nicholas peering in through the crack of the door.
The door closes shut and Jessica is shocked to find her brother standing in her room. She asks if he needs something. He does not reply. She does not think anything of it as he edges closer towards her. He looks her body up and down.
Grabbing her hand, he forces a kiss. Jessica tries to lean away then is pinned against the mirror. She tries to yank her hand back only for him to tighten his grip. Placing a hand up her dress, she closes her legs stopping him from going any further. The more Jessica resists the more aggressive Nicholas becomes.
Wrestling her to the floor, he places himself between her legs using his weight to tire her out. A seam rips, destroying their mother’s dress. A sharp pain knocks the wind out of her. Tears roll down her cheeks as she watches her brother in the mirror.
“You’re still not back, the light of youth is no more. Your still not back, hot tears overflow onto my chest.”
THREE SONS
Nibiru
Sun Ren
The sand seems to have found its way into every crevice of Sun Ren’s suit, rubbing against her clammy skin leaving her swore all over. Each step forward is painstaking. It seems to have found its way into just about everywhere. Grains grind against her teeth, fill her ears and nose, clogs her rifle, and has even spoiled the last of their food reserves.
Days have passed since her squad managed to infiltrate behind enemy lines, dragging with them a bomb intended for Nibiru’s TFP and with its destruction bringing about an end to this war. None of them could have anticipated what a miserable failure their mission would be. Their navigation and communication systems are fried and they have been wandering the endless deserts of Nibiru aimlessly. The roaring battlefield seems like a distant memory and all along the horizon a vast empty ocean of sand stretches. White heat from the blistering sun bares down on them, the thermoregulation of their exoskeleton is all that keeps them alive.
Collapsing from exhaustion the engineer drops their end of the bomb. Each of them hold their breath. Inside the bomb something rattles about. The sound becomes sporadic before eventually settling. No one dares move.
Certain that it is safe, Sun Ren rushes over to aid her fallen comrade. She lifts their helmet off and rests it in the sand with the orange visor facing away from the sun. The engineer’s lips are chapped. Exposed to the dry air they begin to wheeze. Sun Ren offers them the last of her water, gently wetting their lips. The engineer knows what precious little fluids they have left and insists that she leaves the last few drops for herself. The general does not protest.
“Take five,” she ordered.
Allowing the squad to gather their strength, Sun Ren walks on a little farther to scout the surrounding area. Her Dragon Crescent is too heavy to carry so she drops it in the sand. The pads of armour serve as more layers trapping the heat and preventing the exoskeleton from functioning, so she unstraps them and discards them too. Removing her helmet, she is instantly hit by the oppressive heat of the desert. One piece at a time she relieves herself of her soldier’s uniform.
Alone she collects her thoughts. If they are to survive this, they must abandon their mission. From her belt, she reaches for her binoculars. She searches in desperation through the scratched lenses.
To her astonishment, Sun Ren finds low built structures off in the far distance, a small colony untouched by the ongoing battle for the planet. Her second in command is called over and is asked to confirm whether what she has discovered is indeed real, too many tales of soldiers going mad in these deserts have been told for her to trust her own eyes.
“Do you see it?”
“Fūrén, we are saved,” said the commander relieved. “I will round up the others immediately.”
The squad reach the settlement by midday, on entering they are met by a ghostly silence. The streets are empty. The desert has begun to reclaim the colony, whole floors are buried under the sand. Windows are dirty, dark and lifeless.
Sun Ren peers through a cracked window into an empty home. Smashing the glass, she undoes the latch and climbs in. The pungent stench of death hangs in the air. Seeing no signs of conflict, she orders her squad to search the colony for any supplies or drinking water.
The bedroom she climbs into is pitch black. Shinning her flashlight around the room she discovers toys scattered across the floor, clothes hung on the back of a chair, and a small bed with the sheets pulled over a cadaverous figure. Preparing herself for the worst she uncovers the blankets. In bed lays a dry and stiff body of a little girl, put to bed by her parents for the last time.
Downstairs she finds the rest of the family at the dining table. Their skin as dry and stiff as the little girl’s. Scribbled on the wall are messages written in Arabic. Prayers most likely.
Sun Ren does not bother wasting time to search the cupboards as she already knows the story of this poor colony. Pipes ran dry. Food supplies never got delivered. The foolish braved the desert. The hopeful stayed and prayed. When hope ran thin and faith lost, the sensible chose to end it swiftly. Those who did not, suffered. These people were not killed by the war, just forgotten because of it.
A tremor shakes the buried house. Metal cutlery clangs about in the draws. Pots and pans chime in the cupboards. Sand is disturbed and the dust unsettled. Then another one, this time closer.
She rushes upstairs to the child’s bedroom and peers out from the window she entered to assess the situation. A large mechanic leg lands directly in front of her. Leading a Separatist s
quad is a quadrupedal tank. There is no reason for soldiers and a tank to be this far out other than they were tracking them. Despite her best efforts to listen in the soldiers all communicate in a language she cannot understand. Without a weapon to defend herself she quietly withdraws back into the shadows. She hopes that her squad do the same.
Shots are fired. It had been quicker than Sun Ren had expected. Panicked cries fill her coms as each of her soldiers are hunted down. She keeps radio silence and waits for it all to be over.
Then the tank’s turret spins into place and the rotary cannons warm up. Bullets screech through the air ripping through thick concrete walls as if they were nothing. Any last survivors are torn to shreds. Blood stains the clouds of dust as the colony not yet buried by the sand is reduced to rubble.
Sensing the turrets aim heading her direction, Sun Ren dives down the stairs. The exoskeleton absorbs most of the fall but she lands awkwardly. Bright sparks light up the house while she drags herself into cover.
She holds her position until everything settles. The foreign voices of the Separatist soldiers become distant as they round up the dead. Safe for now she climbs to her feet to search for somewhere to hide. She only manages to take a few steps when a sharp stabbing pain brings her to a sudden stop. Before she can scream, a hand covers her mouth.
“Do not fear Fūrén. You do not need to suffer any longer, your war is over,” said a muffled voice from behind.
The knife is slowly drawn from her back. Helplessly collapsing into her attacker’s arms Sun Ren is lowered to the floor, her head placed in their lap. Looking down at her is a soldier wearing midnight blue armour, a black suit, a gasmask with bug-like-eyes and along the chest three letters engraved in silver: S.E.L. A uniform she has not seen since escaping the summit on Brasil. Embroidered onto the armband is a white dragon.
