Rebel Seoul

by Axie Oh

  He changes the subject. “We figured out why Red Moon is taking the girls.”

  I grimace. “Because Park Taesung wants to create an army.”

  Young blinks, surprised. “How’d you find out?”

  “He told me.”

  Speaking of Park Taesung reminds me of the memory I witnessed in the Tower. “He was here that day. The day my father died.” I look around, trying to spot a landmark, something to tie that memory of the past to this moment in the present, but nothing stands out.

  “That’s the thing that I can’t understand,” Young says. “My father loved your father. How could he ever hurt you? How could he separate you from your mother, use you now that you’re in the Tower? It’s shameful of him, and I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for him.”

  “But I do. After all, he is my father.”

  His words are a sharp blade in my gut. I realize with a sudden guilt what I’ve done to Young every time I said, “I am not like my father.” For even when I’d denied being like him, Young would never believe me. To him, it could only be a good thing to be like Lee Hyunwoo, who was kind and would entertain the local boys with stories and games. To a kid neglected by his father like Young, Lee Hyunwoo was a hero.

  But if Young believes I am like my father, then he might also believe he is like his.

  I grab his shoulder. “Park Young, trust me when I say this. You are nothing like Park Taesung.”

  Young laughs softly. “It’s okay. True, I don’t love and respect my father the way you love and respect yours . . .”

  I open my mouth to interrupt, but he shakes his head. “But I am like him. I’m stubborn like he is. I’m selfish like he is. There are a lot of other ways I am like him, but the difference is that I fight it. I don’t want to be like him, so I fight the part of me that is.” Young takes a step forward, and I drop my hand from his shoulder. “I don’t think you fight it, Jaewon. I think you want to be like your father, and it comes naturally to you. You’re brave like your father. You’re good like he was. It makes people want to stand by you. Even if they themselves aren’t inherently good, they know they can only do better by helping you.”

  “Is that why you stand by me?”

  “Ay,” Young says, chuckling, “you’re a habit for me. I’m so used to following you around.”

  “Young-ah,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat, “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  “I know. Me too. That’s why we’re going to be okay. That’s why, although we are like our fathers, in the end, we are not them. We are our own men.”

  I let out a short breath. “Ay, jasik. When do you come up with lines like that?”

  “What can I say?” Young shrugs. “I’m wise.”

  I shake my head.

  Before he takes off, he says, “I had a tip that something’s going down over at the reclamation fields, where the GM factories are. It might get hectic, so you should head back to Old Seoul when you’re done here.”

  “Something?”

  Young shrugs. “Something, something.”

  Again, it must be gang related. “All right. Thanks for the warning.”

  Young signals to Jinwoon and Daeho. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  I nod. “See you around, Park Young.”

  “Yeah,” he says, holding his hand in the air as he walks off. “You will.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Left alone, I realize I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I lift the bottle of rice wine, pop the cap, and place it on the ground. How does one speak to the dead?

  There’s nothing to focus on, no memorial plaque or urn of ashes or photograph of my father. There’s just the dust and the smoke and the memory of him.

  Lee Hyunwoo. Lee Jaewon.

  I wonder if I would have missed you less, had I loved you less.

  Even now, it hurts. “Why does it still hurt?” I ask aloud. The question doesn’t last in the air, swallowed up by the dust. And yet there’s something right about the fleeting sound of the words — it makes them feel safe, secret.

  After all, they’re for my father.

  I clear my throat, gaining strength in knowing that although I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits, there’s power in this moment, ten years and a day from the last time my father looked upon me and smiled.

  “I know why you did what you did,” I say, my voice loud in the still air. “I know why you woke up that morning and came here and destroyed the Tower. You believed that the creation of weapons could not end the war, that it could only prolong the war. In order to stop the Tower from creating more weapons, you made an impossible decision — you murdered thousands in order to save millions.”

  I take a shallow breath before continuing. “And I cannot forgive you for that. I know this war has claimed millions of lives, that it has torn apart our country and hurt our people, and still I cannot forgive you . . . and maybe that makes me the fool. I can’t differentiate how one life is worth less than a thousand. Or how a thousand lives are worth less than a million. All I know is what your life was worth to me, and to me, your life was worth the world.”

  These last words come out in a rush.

  “You left me,” I gasp, putting all the selfish accusation and pain I’ve felt for years into that short phrase, words I’ll never say again. I let the truth spill out for the first and last time. That my anger of ten years was not because he chose to kill, but because he chose to die. That while others might have hated him for his act of terrorism against the state or respected him for his act of bravery to end the war, I had resented him for leaving me. It was selfish of me, and maybe even bitter, to confine his actions to how they hurt me, and only me. But I had loved him. He was — he was my father.

  Blinking hard, I realize I’ve fallen to my knees, my hands digging into the dry dirt. I pick myself up. The charcoal shards swirl in the air, rising with me. They stick to my damp face, and I wonder: if someone saw me now, would they think I was the ghost of my father? I wipe my forearm across my eyes, smearing the dirt.

  My confession has left me clear-headed. The guilt I’ve carried, of hating the one person I’d once loved the most, has disappeared, and I feel weightless.

  “Father,” I say, “although I can’t forgive you for the choice you made that morning ten years ago, I can forgive your desire to protect the people you loved in the only way you knew how. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know what it was to love someone so much that you would die for them. Because you went all the way, didn’t you? You died for what you love. For your country. For the UKL. For Mother. For me. You died for all of us.”

  Swallowing, I open my eyes. “But I don’t want anyone I love to die, not anymore. And . . . I don’t want to die. Father, tell me, how do I protect the people I love? How do I give them a world where the path of sacrifice doesn’t need to be taken, doesn’t need to exist? Where they can live without fear or suffering or pain?”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “Is this idealistic world of mine even possible? Am I a fool for even wanting it?”

  My father doesn’t answer. His ghost doesn’t appear beside me, telling me which pathway I need to take to get what I want.

  But he doesn’t have to.

  I know what I want.

  And I know what I have to do to get it.

  32

  The Demonstration

  I’m on my way to my bike when I get a call from Dr. Koga. “Where are you?” he asks without preamble.

  Immediately I’m on edge. “Incheon. Why? Is something wrong? Is Tera all right?”

  I might have been discharged from the hospital yesterday, but a week has gone by since we crashed in the north. I regret not having gone to see Tera after my interrogation of Oh Kangto, to at least assure her that I’m okay, that we’re okay. I had planned to.
But I wasn’t prepared for the effect my meeting with Oh Kangto would have on me, him calling me by my father’s name, his hands on my hands.

  “Incheon?” Koga asks, puzzled. “Why are you — ? Never mind. We’re holding a GM demonstration to counteract the negative publicity surrounding Oh Kangto’s escape.”

  I’m not surprised when he tells me the location of the demonstration.

  “It’ll take place on the testing grounds over by the GM factories. Tera will pilot the Extension. I need you there to support her.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  When I get off the phone, I immediately dial Young. He’d warned me to stay away from the factories, and I need to know why. What could Young’s gang, the Seven Kings, want with GMs? He doesn’t pick up. Neither does Jinwoon or Daeho. Dammit.

  I jump on my bike and head over to the reclamation fields.

  They lie at the edge of the Yellow Sea, over hundreds of square kilometers of reclaimed land created by dumping cement, dirt and clay over the tidal flats. The GM factories are built on the mainland, but the testing grounds for the GMs extend over the land and sea.

  A metal maze is set up on the field. Vid-droids surround the maze to record the GMs as they run the course. During the demonstration, the droids will project the feed onto large screens over the viewing area. I’ve gone through courses like this before in simulations. The pilots maneuver their GMs through obstacles, shooting down targets and avoiding being shot down themselves. It’s a way to test new GMs before piloting them in a more difficult simulation map.

  I pass by security, scanning my name and ID number with my wrist chip, and park my bike at the edge of the grounds behind a barricade of elevated stands that comprise the viewing area. They’re boosted several hundred meters off the ground and far enough away from the testing site so as not to be caught in stray gunfire. Reporters and city officials arrive in transport ships, docking directly on the metal levels of the stands. Men and women in dark clothing emerge, taking seats.

  Across the field, massive trucks rumble onto the field, each pulling a GM on a giant flatbed.

  The first truck reaches the middle of the field. Its transport pilot maneuvers the massive machine into a sitting position. When its legs hit the ground, the impact causes the dirt to shake, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  The GM straightens, reaching its full standing height with its legs apart for balance. The part of me that’s always loved GMs takes a moment to admire the impressive make of this one. It’s an upgraded version of the main offensive GM utilized on the battlefields in South China, the M-19. The color of gunmetal, the GM stands at above twenty meters. Its right arm is equipped with a built-in blade extending above its fist. The left arm is equipped with a jagged shield. On its back, it holds an arsenal of secondary weapons, including a steel sword and a power rifle.

  The designer of this specific GM added a head with narrow black eyes that reflect the low light — more for aesthetic effect than utility. The thickest, most impenetrable part of the GM is its torso, built to protect the pilot sitting within.

  A small earthquake signals the standing of the second GM, a rare destroyer type, the DX-100. The bulky, barrel-chested GM, known for its central weapon — a long beam cannon — was infamous at the end of the Second Act of the War. The DX-100 burned holes through cities, often wiping out whole platoons in one blast of its beam cannon.

  The last GM, still concealed beneath the black tarp, is smaller than the others. The Extension. Which means Tera must be . . .

  “Jaewon-ah!”

  Tera exits out of a side building and sprints across the distance. She’s fast. I blink, and she’s in my arms. Her grip is strong but gentle.

  “You’re all right,” she says into my neck. “I was so worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have come to you sooner.”

  She leans back, and I look at her. She wears a piloting suit. It covers her from wrists to ankles. There’s no evidence that she’d had a head wound only a week before; her temple is clear of scars.

  She scrutinizes me with the same attention. “There’s something different about you.” She trails her fingers across my cheekbones. “The shadows beneath your eyes are gone.”

  Can she see it? The weight that’s lifted from my shoulders? “Tera,” I say, “there’s something I need to tell you — ”

  “What’s this?” a voice snaps. We turn to see Tsuko standing behind us, wearing his uniform, which is dry and ironed. His cap is placed firmly on his head. He gives no evidence that a few hours ago, he’d been holding the mother of one of his fallen soldiers as she’d soaked his black mourning suit with tears. Except for his eyes. They’re red-rimmed.

  Tera releases me, stepping back.

  Tsuko’s eyes follow the movement. “It all makes sense now why you’ve been so defiant.” His gaze moves from Tera to me. “Do you remember what I said I’d do to you if you ever did anything to destroy this project?”

  He used stronger language in the elevator. I remember. He said he’d kill me.

  “This has nothing to do with Jaewon,” Tera says. “I’ve been feeling trapped for a long time.”

  “You don’t think I feel trapped? You don’t think I wish every day to leave the war behind?”

  “Su — ” Tera says, her voice cracking.

  “When the war ends, then, and only then, will we be free.”

  A loud sounding of the horn signals the demonstration’s about to start. A woman, wearing a uniform of the corporation that owns these GM factories, approaches us.

  “Excuse me, General Tsuko,” she says, bowing, oblivious to the tense atmosphere. “If you and the soldiers could proceed to the testing ground, we will begin the demonstration shortly.”

  Tsuko swallows back any further words and nods, ever the obedient soldier. Tera walks behind Tsuko, who follows the official. Tera watches the back of his head with a look of open concern. Their connection, their friendship, however much I might dislike it, is undeniable. She worries for him. She must be mulling over what he said.

  We board a small truck and are driven out to the fields. The official gives us an overview of the demonstration. Each of us will maneuver through the large metal maze set up on the field. Tsuko and I will demonstrate using the upgraded versions of the M-19 and DX-100, but it’s Tera in the Extension who will be the real star of the demonstration.

  The official drops me off first. The M-19 stands like a sentient fortress on the muddy fields. I glance at Tera before exiting the truck, but her attention is on Tsuko.

  An engineer and machinist are making last-minute checks on the GM. They nod, acknowledging me as I step onto the GM lift. It begins to ascend. Twenty meters off the ground, the lift jerks to a stop outside the M-19’s open chest. The transport pilot, a sharp-featured woman with a shaved head, steps out from the cockpit. “You know how to pilot this model?” she asks.

  “In a simulation.”

  “Simulations are different from real life.” She leans into the cockpit, pointing out various features. “Split screens for viewing. Control panel for adjustments. Thrusters for liftoff. Orb for piloting. You can flip the switch here to open the hatch for an emergency ejection.”

  It’s nothing I don’t already know, but I thank her anyway, bowing.

  “Good luck, kid.”

  She takes the GM lift down as I step into the cockpit and settle into the piloting seat. Across the field, there’s a low rumbling sound. The third GM, the one on the flatbed of the truck, rises into a standing position. The black tarp that had been covering it falls away from its shoulders, pooling around the GM’s feet. The last time I’d seen the Extension, it had been incomplete.

  It’s finished now. Its hands are six-fingered claws, each claw a thin, straight knife. Long, distended legs culminate in large, pointed blades. Its four metal wings double as shields; its ho
rned head has slanted slits for eyes.

  I can imagine the reactions of the sponsors in the viewing stands. This is what they’ll invest in. An Enhanced GM with faster reaction times, unbeatable speed, and an arsenal of deadly weapons. I’ve no doubt that the Extension has the potential to be the deciding factor in the war. It’s also a pretty badass-looking GM.

  I press the button to close the cockpit shield. It’s cold inside. I rub my palms on my legs, gathering warmth, then move them to the control panel, adjusting the outside cameras to ensure a view in all directions.

  Behind me are the sponsors. My rearview camera automatically zooms in on their faces, scanning them for weapons and dismissing them as non-threats. My front camera goes haywire as it scans the Extension, having difficulty identifying the make and model of the suit. It blinks the red word [unidentifiable].

  Because it can’t identify its opponent, the suit can’t offer strategies to combat it.

  Weaknesses [unknown].

  Strengths [unknown].

  If I didn’t know the pilot, I’d have reason to be afraid.

  Tera lifts off first in the Extension, the boosters behind its shoulders igniting to blast her upward into the sky. The GM gracefully twists through the air, its wings spreading out like a fan. Its golden-red finish flashes in the sunlight. If the Extension were to descend on some backward village, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d mistake it, and Tera, for a goddess — one that deals in destruction.

  It’s my turn to take off. I slide my left hand across the display screen, unlock the M-19’s clutch, and ignite the thrusters. With my other hand, I shift the GM into piloting mode, and the seat automatically moves backward, giving me a broad view through my split screens.

  Like most modern GMs, the M-19 comes with a piloting orb — an egg-shaped device that acts as the main control for the GM. Sliding my hand against the smooth surface triggers the GM into jetting forward. Its feet drag huge channels in the ground, and then I lift off, propelling myself into the sky.

  When my GM calculates that I’ve reached an altitude of one hundred and fifty meters, I slow its ascent, maneuvering forward and backward through the air to get used to the feeling of weightlessness.