The Rebellion Engines

by Jeannie Lin

  If we died in Shanghai, we’d be forgotten tomorrow. I was certain of it.

  The Qing empire was in disarray. Its army scattered. They couldn’t restore order against the foreign invaders or the rebel factions. Chang-wei was a fool to think he could save the empire — and I’d been a fool as well.

  Blinking back tears, I returned to the task of trying to hold Chang-wei together. He swallowed a gasp as I secured the binding. Even as careful as I was, there was no helping the pain.

  “Soling,” he began, his voice strained.

  I shook my head. There was no use arguing. He was loyal to the end, beyond reason because his loyalty gave him a reason. But my last tie to the Qing had snapped. For a moment, I was lost, but it wasn’t hard for me to search out a new path. There was my mother. My brother. Liu Yentai and Yang Hanzhu.

  “The only thing that matters is that we protect the ones we love,” I said. “The people held deep in our hearts.”

  You and I, I wanted to tell him.

  But the words wouldn’t come.

  Night left us surrounded by darkness. The sounds from outside had become louder. We could hear the stamp of footsteps and raised voices then the long silences. Time stretched out for an eternity.

  It was impossible to fall asleep. When I did nod off, it was a restless slumber. I lay down next to Chang-wei but was afraid to touch him due to his injuries. I woke up in the darkness with the fingers of his good hand lightly intertwined with mine.

  When daylight finally came, Ming-fen was still crouched in the same position. We continued waiting, though for what, no one could say. Through the vent, we could see boots marching through the streets. There were cries, wails. In the distance, gunfire. I heard it all through the continued hum in my ears.

  At one point, we heard footsteps overhead. I huddled close to Chang-wei and he circled his arm around me until the footsteps receded.

  “We need water,” I said a long time later when the light through the crack began to fade.

  We hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in more than a day. I’d started ignoring hunger pangs long ago and I was certain Chang-wei and Ming-fen were doing the same. But hunger wasn’t the worst of our worries. Without water we would continue to weaken and I wanted to find out what was happening outside while we still had the strength to fight — or flee.

  “Anything nearby will have been sacked,” Ming-fen said.

  We’d seen the imperial troops marching up and down the street.

  Chang-wei stood. “We’ll go together.”

  Ming-fen climbed the stairs ahead of us and lifted the door a crack to peer out before turning back to indicate that it was clear. She then pushed the door open and climbed up. I followed and turned around to help Chang-wei up.

  It was late in the afternoon with the daylight fading. The rooms of the small house were eerily empty as we walked through them, scouring for anything useful. We found some dregs of water at the bottom of a wash basin and shared it between us. It felt like barely enough to wet my tongue, entirely gone before I even swallowed.

  We weren’t bold enough to venture outside of our sanctuary. After peeking outside the windows into the empty lane, we retreated once more into the cellar.

  The next day, we crept upside once more with thoughts of scavenging through the other buildings in the street. Instead, we ducked back as a band of soldiers dragged two men out into the street and cut their throats.

  Anyone the imperial soldiers accused of being a rebel was irrefutably a rebel.

  We hurried back into our hiding spot and stayed down despite the thirst and the hunger. I could feel myself growing lightheaded, my thoughts drifting without focus.

  There was nothing but silence between us for most of the day. We were each lost in our own thoughts, but there was something I needed to say to Ming-fen.

  “Your brother’s death was a tragedy,” I began.

  Ming-fen didn’t say anything. When I glanced at her, she was looking away.

  “I’m sorry,” I began, knowing the words sounded empty. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  We were in her debt. Ming-fen had saved our lives, but I realized she was within her right to turn around and take vengeance.

  “I’m the one to blame,” Chang-wei interjected.

  “I do blame you, Chen Chang-wei,” she said coldly. “Just as I blame the Small Swords. The Emperor. The foreign devils. I blame my brother for the choices he made.”

  She paused and only addressed me when she spoke again. “You don’t need to worry about me seeking vengeance on your betrothed, Mei-mei,” she said bitterly.

  When the Small Swords had taken Old Shanghai, she had rescued Taotai Wu. Now she protected us while Qing loyalists tore the city apart. Ming-fen was White Lotus, but apparently adhered to a different set of principles than Kai or the saboteurs.

  It was fire that eventually drove us out.

  The imperial soldiers had looted what they could and were now burning the homes that remained.

  We escaped the hovel before the fire traveled to us. From there, we huddled in dark corners and alleyways. Every time the sound of footsteps came near, we froze, barely breathing. Everyone, Qing or rebel, was a threat.

  I’d fixed a sling around Chang-wei’s arm and shoulder to immobilize it. If we were discovered, there was little we could do to fight back. We stayed in the shadows as Ming-fen scouted ahead. Eventually we hid away inside another abandoned residence.

  “Why are they burning the houses?” I asked brokenly.

  “Punishment,” Ming-fen pronounced. “Because they won and the Old City lost.”

  Chang-wei swallowed with difficulty. We hadn’t had anything to drink in over a day. “We need to get word to Taotai Wu. He needs to put a stop to this.”

  “Are you mad?” Ming-fen retorted. “What makes you think Taotai Wu has any authority here? How do you know this isn’t exactly what he wants to happen?”

  Chang-wei fell silent, but Ming-fen was far from done.

  “Do you even see what’s happening here?”

  “I do see,” Chang-wei said after a heavy pause. “I see what’s happening.”

  My ears would not stop ringing.

  Three days passed of looting and killing. I don’t know why the violence finally stopped. Had the Qing loyalists satisfied their bloodlust? Was their nothing left worth burning? Had the last of the rebels been executed?

  Taotai Wu was eventually reinstated to the circuit intendant seat. He attempted to restore order and allowed the displaced to leave Old Shanghai.

  We crawled out of our hiding place and trudged toward the East Gate. The only water we could find was a in a muddy puddle by the roadside. Cupping our hands together, we drank from it greedily before dragging on.

  Chang-wei leaned against me for balance. I leaned against him for strength. My body felt as if it were made of wooden sticks, ready to snap at the slightest touch.

  Ming-fen stared as a wagon rolled past with a broken automaton loaded upon it. The steel parts lay in a pile.

  Jiang Wen’s body still lay where we had found it. He was hardly recognizable and the putrid smell of death filled the air. Little Guo, who we had last seen pinned beneath an automaton, was nowhere to be found.

  We were in the middle of a line headed for the foreign concession when Dean Burton found us. He had come in his pressed suit, hat in hand. Ming-fen didn’t say anything to him as she left the line to walk toward the tall foreigner.

  I told him of Chang-wei’s injuries and Burton ushered us toward a waiting steam carriage.

  Ming-fen’s spine remained straight as she entered the transport. Burton reached out a consoling hand to her, but she refused it, opting to stare out the side window. An invisible wall had formed between her and the rest of the world.

  I helped Chang-wei into the carriage before climbing in myself. It was a silent ride back to the American section. Even Burton didn’t find it fit to make idle conversation.

  As I watched the pristine stree
ts of the foreign concession roll by, I was stricken by the realization that the carnage of Old Shanghai had not reached the other side of the river at all. Business had continued in the foreign settlement, blissfully ignorant of the atrocities down the river.

  It was as if the fires, the destruction, and the death had never happened. It all took place in some other place, far away.

  Chang-wei’s hand brushed against mine and my breath caught. He didn’t try to take hold of me. He just laid his fingers alongside mine. Waiting. The engine hummed and we rolled past several streets before I had the courage to twine my fingers through his.

  “Sī shǒu?” he asked softly.

  “Together,” I agreed as we held on to each other.

  Epilogue

  The expulsion of the Small Swords from Shanghai was hailed as a great triumph of the Qing state over a vicious rebel army. The three days of fire and death, murder and rape, at the hands of the loyalist forces were ignored. After a year of siege, the inhabitants of Old Shanghai, many who had their homes destroyed and looted, continued to flee into the foreign settlement. The lines between the old walled Chinese city and the foreign-controlled treaty port were forever blurred.

  Wei Ming-fen left abruptly while we were recuperating at Burton’s mansion. One morning, I heard the front door open and close downstairs, and she was gone.

  I couldn’t find Kai either. I tried to seek help through the White Lotus, but no one would speak to me, an outsider. The last I’d seen of him was when he’d helped me free Chang-wei from the cage of the mechanized suit. Even though he had betrayed the empire, Kai and I had once been friends. I wanted to believe he had made it out alive.

  Months after Shanghai was recaptured from the Small Swords, the main army of the misnamed Heavenly Peace rebels made an assault on the port city of Ningpo by land and sea. They were repelled by the valiant efforts of an ignominious alliance of outcasts and ne’er-do-wells, including my good friend and Chang-wei’s good enemy, Yang Hanzhu.

  There were still bounties on his head in every port. In the meantime, he’d also received a commendation from the imperial navy for his heroic efforts at Ningpo. It was a strange world.

  The Ministry of Science was commended after the victory, with Kuo Lishen granted an elevated title. The Chief Engineer then turned around to offer Chang-wei a promotion.

  He respectfully declined.

  “No more,” Chang-wei told me privately. “I know where my loyalties lie from here on forward.”

  Chang-wei left the Ministry to take a post at the Academy, putting walls and more walls between him and the Emperor. It was easy to disappear into obscurity with so many others vying for access to the imperial court. We would continue to navigate the intricate web of politics in Peking, but we would do it together.

  My mother also looked to becoming a teacher, though not in such an exalted location. She developed plans to open a smaller, private school that accepted all students, male and female. Chief Engineer Kuo continued to consult her. Apparently, his understanding of mathematics was quite poor, as he found frequent excuses to seek out her opinion.

  The Emperor continued to refuse to meet with the Western delegations, instead sending his younger brother Prince Gong. The city of Nanking was still under rebel control. Western diplomats, no longer claiming neutrality, proposed a joint force to take out the remaining rebel strongholds. It would have allowed Western troops to march into our mainland.

  The Emperor turned down their offer.

  As for me, there was enough work in the neighborhoods of Peking for a physician to keep busy. In the traditional ways of a provincial yishi, those under my care only paid me when they were well. Once in a while, someone came to me hoping to be cured of opium addiction. For that, there was no cure.

  I steered the addicted away from the cessation pills and kept my eyes on the opium refuges. In the meantime, I could only prescribe various extracts to ease the withdrawal symptoms along with a regiment of balance, rest, and perseverance. Like Hanzhu, I was looking for a solution to what seemed like an impossible problem. I was still searching.

  Chang-wei and I were married in Peking within the year. Yang Hanzhu sent along a gift of a karakuri puppet that served tea. The scoundrel.

  On our wedding night, Chang-wei took me finally into his arms.

  “You’re here,” he whispered, his lips touching gently against my cheek, the soft skin of my throat. “I was always happy that you were there with me.”

  A wave of emotion swept over me. We had journeyed together across the empire, over land and sea.

  I looked up into his face and pulled him closer. Chang-wei reached for the fastenings on the silk wedding dress with his clever hands.

  We left the lanterns burning.

  The Rebellion Engines is the culmination of the saga that started with Gunpowder Alchemy #1 and Clockwork Samurai #2.

  If you enjoyed the read, please leave a review! Reviews help readers discover new authors and keep these book-making gears turning.

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  For historical background info on The Rebellion Engines, click over to the next page.

  Historical Notes

  The Gunpowder Chronicles are closely tied to actual events in history surrounding the Opium War and the internal uprisings that plagued the Qing Dynasty at the same time.

  The Rebellion Engines revolves around the very real Small Swords Rebellion when a group of insurgents took over the Old City, also called the Chinese City or Old Shanghai. As depicted in the story, many refugees from the Old City and from the surrounding areas flooded into what was previously considered the foreign concession. These events forever altered the landscape of the international settlement and created the melting pot of “East meets West” that ushered in Shanghai’s glittering, lassez-faire reputation of the 1930s.

  As shown in the book, when the Qing army recaptured Shanghai, they did execute the rebels as traitors, but they also rampaged through the Old City, looting, burning and raping for three days — an event that I was surprised I could only find mentioned in passing. Qing Dynasty depictions of the recapture predictably paint the Small Swords as rebel scum and the loyalists as liberators of Shanghai. The suffering of the civilians is glossed over.

  Western records of the uprising from across the river were similarly obtuse about the human toll of the insurrection. The claims of being neutral while not quite neutral also ring true with historical accounts of rebel incursions on Shanghai and Ningpo.

  Given recent events in the United States, I couldn’t help but pay particular attention to factors that might cause such insurrections and the human and spiritual toll of them to be glossed over. The current day willful amnesia moved me to try to depict in some way the confusion and unrest of the Small Swords Rebellion and its aftermath. And then contrast the scale of the tragedy with the careless dismissal by British, American, and French interests within the same city who were profiting off of the downfall of the Qing Dynasty.

  The White Lotus Society was first mentioned in Tales from the Gunpowder Chronicles and plays a role in the events of The Rebellion Engines. The White Lotus, frequently fictionalized in wuxia fiction, is a real group with a long history tracing back to the fall of the Yuan Dynasty. There were several major White Lotus rebellions against the Qing Dynasty as well.

  As Ming-fen pointed out, there was a tendency to label any dissident faction as White Lotus. Gatherings of the White Lotus Society for worship and incense burning were branded as acts of rebellion and subsequently outlawed by the Qing government.

  During the era of the Taiping Rebellion, there were actually many other ancillary uprisings, though the largest of them was the Taiping army, which numbered at its height in the hundreds of thousands. Many of the smaller rebel factions claimed allegiance with the Taiping Rebellion in “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” fashion. The Small Swords Rebellion is one such example. There were othe
r factions throughout the country as opposition to the Qing rose from many different sides.

  In the true historical account, the Qing government eventually needed to rely on support from outside, from foreign troops, to eventually put down the Taiping Rebellion. Also, in the actual history, another devastating loss in the second Opium War further erodes Qing rule and hastens the young Emperor’s rapid decline.

  The history of the Taiping Rebellion as well as the treaty ports and foreign-influence in China is a complex one and I know there are inevitably oversights and omissions in this alternative history.

  In this re-imagined steampunk version of the Opium Wars, it was my view that a stronger empire would be able to hold off the devastation of a second Opium War. But there’s a lot of drama still to deal with.

  At one point, I worried that it would be impossible for the saga to resolve all problems and banish all evil. The Gunpowder world would remain a troubled place on the brink of war.

  When living in tumultuous times, true peace can only be what you find and cultivate within yourself.

  I realize this is a very Buddhist outlook at its core. Though some might find this hard to sit with, happiness while the world rages on, I find this thought comforting. Because don’t we all live in tumultuous times?

  And we all can hope to cultivate peace from within.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge hug and thank you to my editor, Dayna Hart, who stuck with this series from start to finish. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm, your encouragement and your optimism about this odd little saga that took WAY longer than we originally thought to finish.

  This book was many years in the making, through all sorts of ups and downs, stops and starts — the most recent hurdle being the COVID-19 pandemic. It was the constant online contact and encouragement from close friends — Shawntelle Madison, Sela Carson, Amanda Berry and Bria Quinlan that kept me from imploding. I can’t wait for the day when we can all gather again in person so I can thank you all first hand for helping me keep it together.