by Saxon Keeley
There is no countdown. The only indication they are about to be launched at a high velocity into space is a buzzing.
Alistair erupts into screams that gargle in the back of his throat as the force of the acceleration bares down on them. The few teeth Charles has with fillings begin to feel like they could explode. All their ears pop at the same time.
It is only a matter of seconds for the green night sky to fade into blackness. The force that was baring down on them lifts, replaced by the sensation of falling.
Charles unbuckles his seatbelt. Already the Chairman is floating playfully around the boat. He grins joyfully like a child, summersaulting with no fear of injury.
Inviting Charles to join him in the cockpit, Zhang navigates the hull with no problems. Lifting himself from the seat, Charles bounces off the interior towards the front of the craft. He can’t help but find delight in falling in zero gravity.
“Come, watch that spot,” said the Chairman.
Charles uses the pilot’s seat to steady himself. For a long time, it seems that they are staring at nothingness. Then a spec begins to take shape and that shape begins to increase in grandeur.
“There. The pride of Neo-Shanxi engineering.”
“What is it?” Charles asked.
“The future of space travel. The largest carrier ship ever to be constructed. Too large to enter the atmosphere of a planet. Running on Laser Inertial Fusion Energy we can generate more power than any current ship. This not only allows prolonged periods out in space, perhaps indefinitely, but means it is the fastest ship known to human kind. In eight months, we will be home on Neo-Shanxi,” Zhang said excitedly.
The carrier ship is unlike anything Charles has ever seen. The main body is short. On each side are huge wings, that look more like shields, pointing diagonally outwards. Thrusters, that would dwarf their boat, are concealed in the wings. Though he body is small, it is the most elegantly deigned section of the ship. Charles is amazed by the sceptical. Such a feat of ingenuity is merely theoretical on Earth.
Feeling a tap on his ankle, he pulls Li towards the front of the boat. The moment she lays her eyes on the ship, she is lost for words. Both completely stunned.
“Only eight months? What do you call her?” Charles asked in disbelief.
The Chairman beams. “The Cyclothone.”
THE FAMILY-PART ONE
Neo-Shanxi
Wesley Jung
The music playing over the speakers is an old classic C-pop song, remixed to give it a new lease of life. In the background of the track, the crackles can still be heard from when it was converted from wax. A novel sound that gives the bar a disingenuous sense of authenticity.
The whaling of the music competes with the boisterous conversations in the bar. An eclectic mix of people sit isolated from another. Western business men sit with their mistresses telling rude jokes whilst puffing on their e-cigarettes. Lone Chinese men and women sit at the bar slowly sipping on their drinks, some of them down and outs, many others scouting for potential clients. Rowdy groups of youths’ cheer and shout from across the bar, occasionally leaving an awkward silence.
The floor is sticky with alcohol. Each step Wesley takes, it feels as if he is pealing his shoe off from what is made to look like wooden flooring. Everything in the bar is made to look like the real thing, but everyone knows it’s mere imitation. If someone were ignorant enough to be oblivious to that fact upon initial impressions, they would soon find out with one taste of the liquor. Dwellings such as this are a far cry from the prestigious salons of the Political District.
The light glistens in the liquids displayed on the shelves and the incense burning fills the bar with a natural bajiao fragrance, another attempt to bring about authenticity.
Wesley takes a seat at the bar next to a Westerner and his mistress. He places down the used glasses and searches for the bartender. Over the other side of the bar a large order has been placed. Wesley slumps over and sorts out his sleeves while he waits.
His red cotton jacket hangs loose over a cream shirt. Donning the uniform of Chinese martial artists begun as a symbol of pride, over the years, the clothing became associated as a statement of defiance against CERE control and any Chinese youth that comply with the establishment.
Running down the right side of his face and neck is a tattoo of the Shanxi Dragon. The ink is still fresh. With his hair shaved at the back and sides, along with his stature, Wesley is an intimidating figure.
The bartender walks over to take Wesley’s order, but the Westerner cuts across and interrupts.
“Sorry boy,” the Westerner said to Wesley with contempt, then turned to the bartender, “could you turn down the music. I can’t even hear myself think.”
The bartender walks off to adjust the volume.
“I am not your fucking boy, xiyang guizi,” muttered Wesley, just as the music is lowered.
The man swivels around on his chair and stares Wesley down.
“What did you just call me, boy?” retorted the Westerner, trying to pronounce each word as best he can.
“I called you a fucking xiyang guizi.”
Having said his piece, Wesley signals to the bartender for more drinks.
The Westerner’s face turns red and it takes a moment for the man to compose himself. Letting his temper subside, he continues the conversation with his companion for the evening.
“That is right, turn to your biǎozi. You destroy our country, take our home, take our women. Nothing to you is off limits,” antagonised Wesley. “You fucking biǎozi, letting a guizi put his jībā in you. What does it feel like when he is inside of you? Have you no shame?”
The Westerner stands, towering over Wesley. His companion grabs his arm to pull him back. Taking a sip of his drink, Wesley listens while she pleads with the Westerner to leave the bar and find a table away from him.
Just as it seems like the Westerner is convinced, Wesley resumes hassling them.
“What do you call yourself? Because you are not Chinese any longer. If you think your Chinese, then come over to our table,” he said while nodding his head in the direction of a small group of young males. “I am sure we can make you remember what it feels like to be Chinese again.”
“You say one more thing and I will knock you flat,” warned the Westerner.
Wesley steps down from the stool and squares up to the man. In comparison, Wesley is quite a bit shorter than him. The man realises just how young Wesley is.
“You are just a boy,” dismissed the Westerner.
Something flips inside Wesley as the two of them walk away. Several people around the bar notice the sudden change in his body language, but none of them can react quick enough to stop Wesley shoving the man in the back.
Their drinks go flying and glass shatters all over the floor. His companion shrieks as the man is launched across the room, landing on a table.
Wesley pins the Westerner down and begins pommelling him with his fist.
Before Wesley’s friends can join in, they are intercepted by a large group of Westerners.
Grabbing a glass bottle, Wesley holds it high above his head. Putting as much weight as he can behind the strike, he is taken by surprise when his arm does not follow through.
Glancing behind, he finds himself being held back by some of the other Westerners in the bar. Wesley resists the best he can, but gradually he is pulled away, taking five men to properly restrain him.
Held in place, he watches as the man is helped up from the table. His split lip gushing blood down his chin. From his jacket pocket, he pulls out a handkerchief to clean himself up.
The Westerner walks over to Wesley clutching his fist and he lands a punch square in his stomach. Having readied himself for the impact, Wesley stands there hunched over, laughing. His reaction invites another, landing just above the first.
A few more blows land in quick succession. Again, the stomach, then the chest and then the face.
The men holding Wesley jeer and
snigger as he grows slightly heavier in their arms.
“Stop, stop. Do you not know who he is?” cried the companion.
“Cào nǐ māde bī,” insulted Wesley.
The man inspects the young troublemaker.
“I thought you looked a little light skinned,” he scoffed. “Call the police. A night in the cells will sober him up.”
The Westerner turns to his companion, takes her by the arm and heads for the exit. She glances back at Wesley, only for him to meet her gaze. She averts her eyes embarrassed.
“Support Neo-Shanxi, exterminate the foreigners,” shouted Wesley.
The other young Chinese in the bar cheer thunderously, the support for the radical slogan unsettles the Westerners. Nervous they all look to each other for reassurance.
The man with his companion stops at the door. He returns to Wesley, looming over him, and raises his fist high. Welcoming the strike, Wesley straightens his back, standing proud as the men behind him try to hold him in place.
Punched with full force, the taste of blood mixes with the alcohol.
*
Singing obnoxiously loud enough to keep the people in the other cells from sleeping, Wesley lays on the hard surface of the bench with his right hand chained to the wall. His nose bloody and his left eye black. The bottle of water that the police have provided for him stands on the floor untouched.
The cell is underground, it is cold and the white paint is beginning to show age.
“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,” sang Wesley.
“Shut the fuck up,” screamed the inmate in the next cell.
Other voices begin to scream down the corridor demanding him to stop. Ignoring everyone Wesley continues regardless.
An officer appears at his cell door and kicks the metal bars. “Stop the singing.”
Wesley sits up and stares down the officer.
“And what will you do if I do not stop singing. Charge me for having a beautiful voice. Go sit back down, you know you cannot touch me,” he said confrontationally.
The officer sheepishly returns to his desk, knowing full well he must be careful of how he behaves towards Wesley.
Laying back down, Wesley starts from the beginning of the song. This time even louder. The inmates rattle their cell doors in frustration.
In the early hours of the morning, a young man in a Chinese suit enters the police station. The embroidery of his jacket is beautiful and on the left chest it meets to form the head of a dragon. The dragon of the Shanxi Assembly.
The young man’s hair is messy, reflecting the time of night rather than his usual upkeep. Clean shaven and boyishly handsome, his posture is one of importance and distinction.
The sergeant waits at the front desk for the young man. Upon his arrival, the two firmly shake hands. Both hide their familiarity, acknowledging the seriousness of their meeting.
“Good morning Mr Jung. Your brother is just downstairs in his usual cell. I will escort you down.”
“Thank you,” said Alistair.
The sergeant leads the way, more of a formality at this point. Everything in the station seems quiet. Doors closed. Whole offices sit in the dark. Walking through the station, it is clear they are working with a skeleton crew tonight.
“He was brought in looking pretty beat up. We refused any charges being pressed against him because of his condition. But this is the fifth time in the last two months. That is not counting any of the times we have stopped him and his friends in the streets,” explained the sergeant.
They approach a door with a light beaming through the cracks. The quiet of the station is interrupted by shouting and one lone voice singing.
Before opening the door, the sergeant turns to Alistair in a moment of sincerity.
“I have played the books as best I can, but there is only so long we can keep this up. Eventually your brother will do something that none of us can protect him from. Officials from the CERE are enquiring into our records. His name has come up a few times.”
“I understand sergeant. It would be an embarrassment for my family, for your department and for the whole of Neo-Shanxi. But I have faith in my brother. At this stage I fear that it is all that I have,” Alistair said diplomatically, showing only a little insight into his own thoughts.
The sergeant firmly pats Alistair on the shoulder, then opens the door.
The first thing to hit them is the light. They both squint until their eyes adjust. Then the smell hits them. The sergeant continues unfazed, but despite the many recent visits to the station, Alistair has not quite yet grown accustom to the smell of stale vomit and urine. He pulls out a handkerchief and holds it over his nose.
In each cell, Alistair is met with a desperate sight: stoned women with torn dresses laying undignified; passed out men, both Western and Chinese, sit in their own fluids. Most of the cells are full of drunks and opium addicts, occasionally they hold the odd thief or abusive male. But above all the whines, groans, screams and misery, is his brother singing to himself.
“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.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Then a loud thudding follows, as fists begin to beat against the wall.
“If you let me finish then I would not have to start from the beginning. Shit, maybe you could sing with me. Let us make a whole night of it,” Wesley responded, pausing his song just to antagonise the inmates again.
A police officer emerges from a cell doing up his belt, he notices both his superior and Alistair approaching, then a woman walks out from the same cell doing up her dress. Not bothered by the two men, she makes her way to the exit. The officer stands ashamed of his actions.
Alistair watches as the sergeant scrutinises his officer. Disgusted, he pushes the officer into the cell and slams it closed. The other cells roar with amusement. The sergeant looks back at Alistair, neither of them wish to pursue the issue further.
Wesley stops singing as the door swings wide open and leans to his side, waiting to be un-cuffed.
As the sergeant frees him, he twists his arm to remind him of his place. Bearing the pain, Wesley knows he can do little to protest such treatment.
The sergeant wanders out of the cell to keep an eye on the other inmates.
Rubbing his freed wrist better, Wesley watches as Alistair squats down in front of him, neither of the brothers seem embarrassed by the situation.
For a long time, nothing is said.
“You know, I always did love Bai Guang,” said Wesley inebriated. “She was so stunning. I think my favourite movie is A Forgotten Woman. Makes me cry every single time.”
Alistair merely nods.
“I have been waiting for you to return,” chuckled Wesley.
“Let us go home brother,” said Alistair softly.
“Only if you sing with me,” insisted Wesley, imitating his brother’s mannerisms. “No one here knows the lyrics.”
“Shut the fuck up,” yelled his neighbour.
Amusing only himself, Wesley continues to hum the tune.
Alistair places his arm around his brother and leads him out of the cell. The sergeant gives Alistair and long hard stare. They both know, regardless of the circumstances, this is the last time they would be seeing each other.
Outside the police station, the two brothers relish in the spectacle of the starry sky. Above the towering buildings, colours from distant suns create a tapestry of unparalleled splendour. For Wesley, it is the only sky he has ever known.
With little more than star light to guide their way through the sleeping streets of the Political District, they walk amongst buildings whose architectural majesty cannot be full recognised at such early hours. Together they follow the overhead train line to the nearest station. Alistair hopes that they are still running between districts.
“She died of colon cancer.
What a way for a person to go out. Even the remarkable can die in an ordinary fashion,” said Wesley.
“Why are you talking about Bai Guang so much?” asked Alistair.
“Because I do not want the other conversation we are going to have right now,” explained Wesley. “You can be the big brother in the morning after breakfast.”
They walk in silence for a while.
“I am waiting for you to return,” Alistair began singing.
The two brothers smile and then break out into song. They continue singing their way to the station.
*
The bedroom door is prudently opened, waking Wesley from his drunken slumber. Rolling over, he covers himself so that he appears decent.
Unembarrassed, as only young children are, a girl of no more than five walks in with a glass of water. The girl is dressed in an expensive red robe with golden floral embroidery. Her skin pale. Astonishingly dark brown eyes and long black hair.
Feeling worse for wear, Wesley turns over to look out the window. The morning sun is still yet to break. Stale alcohol wafts from his mouth making him feel slightly sick.
He beckons her over for a hug. She places down the water on the bedside cabinet and jumps into his arms.
“Why are you up so early?” Wesley asked, playfully growling.
“It is time for breakfast. We always get up to have breakfast with father before he goes,” explained the girl.
“The sun is not even out. The night is for sleeping.”
“Uncle, you have to get up,” she commanded.
She squirms out of the hug and goes to find him something suitable to wear. After rummaging about in the wardrobe for a while she returns to the bed with a set of clothes and a towel.
Resting them at the end of the bed, she smiles and explained with a sophistication beyond her age, “The water in the bath is still warm. Breakfast will be in twenty minutes. Mother and Father will not be happy if you are not at the table in time.”
