by JY Yang
Then Suqing says: “When you asked to accompany me, I was in a dilemma. I suspected a trap. It seemed too convenient. First exposing my preferences for women, then trying to catch us in treasonous activities. I had a moment of doubt. I suspected the Authority’s involvement.”
A reasonable fear. “What changed your mind?”
“Nothing, actually. I just thought, I don’t want to live with this kind of fear and doubt all my life. Where even expressions of love have to be taken with suspicion.”
She comes to a stop before the entrance of a pump room, its door thick and heavy, the muffled roar of machinery thrumming from within. “Once you step through this door, there is no turning back. Are you sure about this? Do you know why you’re doing it?”
You are doing it for Ren. For Wang-sun. Your sorrow for her is overwhelming. How pitiful that she died helpless, at the mercy of the forces that have dictated the form and shape of your life. You have determined that this will not be your fate.
You straighten your spine and sing: 「莫等闲白了少年头、空悲切。」
Suqing dips her head in understanding, and unlocks the room door with her mage’s touch.
* * *
Over the next few hours and the next few days you learn many things. You suspected some of them, others catch you blind.
You learn that the roots of the rebellion have spread far and wide in Eighth Colony. They go deeper than you had imagined. Nearly half the Authority officers are active participants, and they are in every branch of operations.
You learn that of the four starmages on the colony, three have been recruited to the cause. The fourth, Officer Yao, is an Authority man, through and through. It cannot be helped. It is enough.
You learn that Quartermaster Lu leads the Eighth Colony rebels. When you ask if it feels strange to give orders to starmages, he laughs. “There is no place for that sort of hierarchy in the rebellion. We must purge ourselves and our movement of such toxic ways of thinking!”
You learn that the corpse that started your recent troubles was in fact a message from comrades on the originworld. Secrets and messages had been whispered into the dead man’s ear before he had been slaughtered. The map of his viscera has been pinned up in the pump room, Starmage Wu’s spidery interpretations scrawling downwards beside it. Gut-reading is an old art long fallen out of practice, but Starmage Wu had taught himself as a young man. The Starmage General had gotten so jittery around the Imperial Executioner’s visit that normal lines of communication were no longer safe.
You ask Quartermaster Lu: “So he was not really your cousin? That was a lie?”
“He was my cousin. But he was becoming a liability to the movement.” Since he had to die, his body might as well be made good use of. His death was regrettable, but it couldn’t be helped.
So, too, was Traitor’s. When she was caught, it was decided that saving her would only expose the movement to more danger, more executions. Starmage Jiang had visited her, quietly wiped her memories, so she could not reveal anyone else. She had died not even knowing her crimes.
You notice how uncomfortable Suqing becomes whenever Traitor is mentioned. Her name, you remind yourself, was Siyun.
Rebellion is imminent. Four of the Colonies have agreed to coordinate, overthrowing the Imperial Authority on the same day, declaring themselves independent.
Only the starmages have the ability to defeat the Starmage General. But their suits have a limiter that stops them from performing the Seventy Two Transformations, and that is under the Starmage General’s control. It is possible to bypass the limiters, but the materials needed to do so come from the originworld, and that shipment was interrupted by the Imperial Executioner’s visit.
“But we have the ansible on our side now,” says Quartermaster Lu. He thumps you heartily on the back.
“What of the processing officer?” you ask. “The new one detests me. Surely he will notice something amiss.”
“That’s Officer Xiao, isn’t it? He’s new to the colony.” Starmage Wu rubs his chin and looks at Suqing. “I hear he has his eye on you. He’s ambitious. That might work.”
Suqing flushes. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Come on, Ouyang,” Quartermaster Lu says. “Surely even a deviant like you can distract a man for a mere few minutes.”
* * *
It takes more than a few minutes. For safety’s sake, Suqing’s flirtations with the man have to stretch across the week. The excuse is that, due to your poor performance, she has been sent to oversee you. While you sing your broken, mismatched song, she bats her eyelids and recites the lines Starmage Wu taught her. Her delivery is so glasslike and stiff you wonder how he believes it. But he is smitten. Somewhere between his posturing and Suqing’s unconvincing lip-biting, you receive a package wrapped in red cloth, mage-touched to hide it from scrutiny.
You cannot believe it worked.
Quartermaster Lu is predictably delighted, clapping Suqing on the back. He likes doing this, you realise, his boisterous laugh louder if the recipient of his gesture flinches. “Looks like you’ve truly got it in you, Ouyang. Are you sure you really like women that much?”
“I can vouch for that,” you say to him, as Suqing’s lips thin.
Quartermaster Lu guffaws. “This one has spirit! I like her.” And he looks at you with a smile that means he does not like you, at all.
Suqing takes your hand. It is done. Nothing stands between the colony and its destiny now.
* * *
On the eve of the rebellion you lie with Suqing, one last exultation before the fall. You kiss her pale, damp skin, caressing the dips and curves that glow with implant light. How familiar this has become, as though everything that passed before had been a dream, and this has been the only reality you’ve known.
Eventually the both of you fall quiet, urgent caresses subsiding into a loose, comfortable tangle of limbs. “Are you frightened?” you ask.
Suqing blinks and looks out at the stoic, unjudgemental stars. “I’ve already done the most frightening thing I can think of.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you approach me, after so many years?”
She grips your hand. “The path of rebellion is lined with death,” she says. “And I didn’t want to die full of regrets.”
You bury your face in her fragrant shoulder. “You’re not allowed to die.”
She lifts your chin. “Surely my life is worth the freedom of the people? One life is not that much of a price to pay.”
You say nothing. Your mind struggles to construct the memory of the faces you have loved: Ren’s pale softness, the bright lines of your long-gone Mingyue. It’s like building a bridge out of smoke.
Your silence is not lost on Suqing. She kisses your fevered brow. “What happens, will happen,” she says. “We shouldn’t fight it.”
“Aren’t we fighting for the right to choose our destinies?”
She breathes out. “Yes,” she says finally. “Yes, we are. And this is what we’ve chosen.”
She has nightmares about Siyun’s death, still. You do too. Sometimes you dream that it’s Suqing in Traitor’s place. Sometimes you dream it’s you.
“After tomorrow,” Suqing says, as though reading your mind, “it won’t happen again.”
You press your chest against hers and softly begin the song you two chose for yourselves: 明月几时有？把酒问青天。 Suqing’s voice joins yours, and in the cadence of her tone, snug as a glove, you feel a familiar resonance. And instead of fighting it you let it envelope you. You are falling into her song, as she is falling into yours, and her eyes are wide as a connection opens between you, a portal that transcends space and time.
不知天上宫阙、今夕是何年？
“We did it,” she whispers, as the song ends.
You press your heads together. “Now nothing in the universe can keep us apart.”
* * *
You have never witnessed starmages in battle. Same as ordina
ry citizens, you have only read the poetry, heard the songs, tried to imagine the shape and sound of these battles. The things which are happening now defy the imagination, defy sense of scale, defy understanding. Creatures the size of mountains tear each other apart in the cold field of space. Two dragons battle, sinuous bodies twisting past the glass belly of Eighth Colony’s main atrium. The blood-slick scales that glide by are bigger than human heads. One dragon struggles to hold the other still. A third creature, a tiger that could swallow suns, slashes its world-splitting claws through dragonscale.
You can only guess which one is Suqing. And guesses are worth nothing in the arena of war.
Dragontail strikes glass and cracks spider across its surface. Amid cries of fear and consternation and the beat of your heart you whisper a mantra: It’s alright. It’s alright. She won’t let anything happen to us.
The citizenry clots the main atrium, bodies pushing against bodies until sweat and exhalation turns the air to thick and unbreathable soup. Terrible things transpire outside the atrium, but all that filters past the double-layered steel doors are muffled explosions and a great sense of fear. Fringes cling to foreheads, parents cling to children, and your grey tunic clings to the small of your back. A gun naps in your hands, warm and heavy, and as you patrol the atrium, intrusive thoughts of your fellow rebels follow you like a pack of wolves: What if you dropped it? What if it went off?
A woman pulls a small boy close as you walk past, and her eyes trail you as you continue your patrol. The citizenry are gathered here to protect them from the fighting; they are not hostages, or prisoners. This, too, is what they have been told.
In the center of the atrium the sculpture that used to be Traitor shimmers in the light of battle.
Something explodes in the station and you fall. Gun clatters against metal as the lights go out, and the deep bass thrum of the air system falls silent as if shot. People scream, and something—someone—strikes your jaw as the pushing starts, the angry, panicked shoving. You scramble to your feet, fearing a stampede, a loss of order, the loss of life. The gun—you see it on the floor, and you dive desperately for it. As your fingers close around the barrel something kicks you in the back. A foot crushes your hand. You scream.
The lights come back on and the air system starts again, unsteady and shuddering, as if the station is having problems drawing breath. Your hand pulses red-hot with pain as you get to your feet, and you don’t want to look at it, don’t want to see if there’s blood. The gun didn’t go off. That’s something to be thankful for. The other rebels are screaming instructions to the citizenry, to each other. Everyone seems to have forgotten about you.
Behind you someone starts crying.
Eighth Colony fills with thunder as the starmages crash into it. People fall and scream. The glass splinters further. Miraculously it holds, or you think it holds, because none of you are dying now, nobody is being sucked out to space. Pressed against the straining glass, the body of a dragon blots out the stars, and it is oddly, strangely green. It glows. Something is happening, something so powerful it shreds through the part of you that’s all gift.
If you call to Suqing now, would it help her? Or kill her?
The green flares, it burns your eyes, it consumes the shapes of the battling starmages. You drop the gun and cover your face with a cry. A quake tears through your gift. All falls silent, and remains silent. Then the slow babble of the citizenry rises up, a confused clamor of voices and exclamation.
Very slowly, you lower your hands. Beyond the cracked glass of the atrium lies only starfield. The starmages are gone. You allow yourself to breathe, but air burns through your lungs, and you too can taste vinegar in your throat as your stomach clenches into a small ball.
The sounds of strife outside the atrium fade; all that’s left are indistinct shouting voices. The sound of boots, quick and heavy against metal. Two gunshots, very brisk, very loud, very close by. And then nothing.
Your knees hurt and your calves are trembling. You should either sit down or keep patrolling, but you can’t bring yourself to do either.
“You,” shouts one of the rebels, a dough-faced man with buzz-cut hair. You remember his name, you do, it’s Sung—was it Sung? He’s shouting instructions at you, his wide blunt fingers pointing, gesturing, but the words don’t register. They are only sounds, whistling through the heat in your ears.
The main atrium doors groan as if they are being pulled apart by force, and a gasp goes up from the citizenry. As the doors rumble open, ten feet high and double-reinforced with steel, you tighten your grip on the gun, ignoring the pain in your broken fingers.
The first person through is a young rebel, her clothes and hair marked by blood. “Rejoice,” she shouts, “we are victorious.”
Cries go up from the other rebels, cheers and ululations. Your throat remains sandpaper-dry, your chest a metal vise. The citizenry around you stay likewise quiet and tight-lipped. A coup is a coup is a coup, and a bullet can kill you regardless of ideology.
“Tian?”
You see her through the gaps in the rebels flooding the room, through the confusion of the citizenry. Suqing, battered and exhausted, but alive. Alive.
You run to her, feet getting caught on things as she stumbles towards you. Your shin connects with something, a person or their belongings, you’re not sure which, but you’ve flung your arms out already, you can’t move fast enough. Suqing smells of blood and sulphur and ozone, and her armor bruises your chest, but you don’t care. You don’t want to let her go.
“You still live,” you say. “I was so afraid.”
“My love.” The starmage kisses you on the mouth, in public, where everyone can see. Her embrace is raw force, teeth clashing against lips, arms lifting you off your feet. The world tilts and your stomach plummets in free fall—can you dare to hope that for once, something is going right?
Suqing seizes your hands when she releases you to the world again. Her reddened cheeks shine with a mad sort of joy, the madness that comes with great struggle coming to fruition. “Come,” she says, squeezing your fingers. You ignore the pain. “There’s a meeting of the leaders, we must attend.”
And so you leave the atrium and its multitudes behind, in the care of the ordinary rebels not invited to this high-level meeting. Suqing leads you through the death-lined guts of Eighth Colony, speckled with the corpses of Authority officers. The rebels jog between and around these mounds of flesh on the floor. Loose shoes, badges. Dark trickles of liquid smeared across metal in the pattern of boot prints. You breathe through your mouth and start keeping your line of sight above shoulder level.
The blood splatters on the wall look like roses.
“What now?” The question fills the space between Suqing and you.
“No one knows,” she says. “This is just the beginning; our struggle is far from over. There will be days and months to come, and no one can predict what they will bring.”
She stops in the middle of the carnage and turns to you, her smile wide and bright as you’ve ever seen. “But we’ll be together. Now nothing will come between us.”
The path of the corridors closes in on the pump room where you first got entangled in all this. In front of it stands the shape of Quartermaster Lu.
He has a gun in his hands.
He raises the gun as you draw near.
Suqing angles her body so that she and her mage suit stand between you and the gun muzzle. “What’s going on?”
Quartermaster Lu’s face is sweat-slick but businesslike, calm as a storm cloud drifting across a summer’s courtyard. “The rebellion has succeeded. Now we must cut the last ties to the parasitic Authority.”
This, you realise, with a thick muddy sinking of your stomach contents, means you. The gun is meant for you.
Suqing’s brow knits. “You doubt my loyalty to the cause? Because of my family?” She still doesn’t understand.
“It’s not you.” You stare Quartermaster Lu in the face, daring him to
crack, to show even the slightest hint of remorse. “You’re talking about me, aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand.” Suqing takes a step backwards, moving closer to you. “She wouldn’t betray us!”
“Not by choice. But she’s an ansible. She’s an open connection. Someone from the Authority could get through her, send things over. It’s too dangerous.”
“That’s not how it works!” Suqing’s anger and frustration boils over. “I’ve learned the method, it has to be a two-way connection!”
“We cannot take the risk. Ouyang, it cannot be helped.”
Suqing’s hands tighten into fists. “Like Siyun’s death couldn’t be helped?”
Your face burns, your breath burns. You hiss: “I joined the rebellion so my fate wouldn’t be decided by men like you.”
The gun points to your face. “Think of the good of the cause,” says Quartermaster Lu, his tone flat. You clench your fists, ignoring the pain that flares through the broken one. Could you strike him, and then run?
“Everything I’ve done has been for the good of the cause,” Suqing says. “Not anymore.”
She grabs your hand, your swollen broken hand, and the pain keeps you anchored as her gift flares.
The world distorts, goes grey, and then muffled. Time stops. Quartermaster Lu’s face is frozen in the half-expression rictus of a new word. The breath of the station’s air system morphs into a loud, constant drone.
“What is this?” you ask, words shaky.
“This is in-between.” Suqing breathes like she’s climbing mountains. “You access it with your gift. You don’t learn this as ansibles?”
You learn nothing as ansibles. They teach you to be nothing but a conduit.
Suqing pulls at you as you run. “We haven’t got much time,” she gasps. How long can she hold on? You follow after her in a daze, one foot in front of the other, unable to absorb how strange all this is. Your gift sings and sings, a mosquito chorus you’ve never been allowed to hear. In the grey half-light of the in-between the dead bodies littering the corridors seem more like part of the station than anything else. Woven into the fabric of the world.
