by Saxon Keeley
Persistently the intercom keeps sounding. With the little composure he can muster, he answers the call.
“Yes?”
“Dr Jung is about to arrive. He is currently on the train over the canyon. I thought you would like to know,” a colleague warned him.
Oscar looks across the room to a series of prototype military grade exoskeleton suits left out on display. For months, he has been tirelessly working to perfect the design.
Slim fitted, the black under layer consists of layers of microfibers that mimic human muscle and mossy green armour is strapped to venerable areas of the body. Resting on the table is the suit’s helmet. A large orange visor covers the face, while the rest offers maximum protection. On the left chest is the familiar emblem of the Shanxi Dragon.
“Thank you,” Oscar said courteously. “Could you send someone to clean up a spillage. And maybe order some breakfast from the canteen?”
“Yes, Mr Jung.”
Oscar runs his fingers through his hair, roughing it up to make it look in some way presentable. Making sure his t-shirt is tucked in, he throws on his black and scarlet doubled layered blazer. Covering his prototypes under a sheet, he switches off the lights before rushing to meet his father.
The clinically white corridors of Jung Labs make it seem as if navigating through a labyrinth. With only the occasional coloured sign or sector number, even those who have worked here since it’s construction lose their way around. It is the quirk that his father enjoys most about the facility.
Oscar reaches the entrance just as Charles walks through the door. Taking one look at his son, Charles passes by without saying a word. His coat flaps behind him as he maintains his pace.
“Good morning Father,” said Oscar, catching up.
“You look a state,” said Charles. “Another night spent sleeping at your desk. When was the last time you went home?”
Instead of thinking of a measured response, Oscar merely blows air through his closed lips. His father gives him a sharp look, which forces a response.
“I honestly can’t remember.”
Charles stops and turns to his son. “Do you even know where your son is?”
“Alexander should be at home with his nanny.”
“No one has been at your apartment for the past few days. Xuan paid off the nanny and has taken Alexander,” explained Charles.
“She is his mother,” he argued.
“The point is that you have no clue where your child is,” snapped Charles, appalled by his son’s indifference.
Oscar looks around at his fellow colleagues, shuffling around awkwardly as they try their best not to take any notice.
“When people leave work tonight, I expect you to be on the train with them. Go home, have a shower, get a clean set of clothes, sleep in your own bed. And find your son,” instructed Charles.
Not interested in any protest Oscar might put up, Charles leaves towards the direction of the TFP.
Uncomfortable in following his father in the same direction, he wanders off towards the canteen to find himself some breakfast and a fresh cup of tea.
*
By the afternoon, like most days, his father has returned to the city and Oscar can once again resume his own projects.
Funnelling a pipe cleaner down the barrel of a disassembled prototype, Oscar cleans up after what he hopes to be the last bit of tinkering he will have to do. Engraved on the side of the handguard are the characters ‘Dragon Crescent’.
Completely oblivious to the presence of his Grandfather standing by the door, it is only when he checks through the barrel does he see him.
“Please excuse me, I did not wish to disturb you,” apologised Zhang.
“No trouble at all Grandfather, please come in. Take a seat. Let me clean myself up.”
“Please do not stand on any pomp or ceremony. Your work here is important, I am the one who has intruded upon your concentration,” he said, inspecting his grandson’s creations. “I am pleased to see that everything is coming along suitably. That armour is most impressive.”
“Impressive yes. Financially feasible, not so much.”
“Cost should never be mentioned when talking about safeguarding lives. You worry about finishing it, I will worry about financing it. Besides there are many benefactors in Shanxi who have already pledged a considerable sum.”
Oscar continues to clean the parts of the Dragon Crescent. “I heard that there was a heated session today at the Assembly.”
“Bah!” dismissed the Chairman. “It is good to have a lively debate at times, keeps your mind sharp. Especially at this old age.”
“I cannot imagine Alistair was so untroubled by today.”
“Your older brother takes things too personally. But you already know this,” said Zhang, leaning over his grandson’s shoulder watching while he works.
“It is not quite finished yet. There are still a few minor hitches to work out, but it is exactly what you asked for,” said Oscar, pleased by the interest.
“And more,” Zhang said chuffed. “Oscar, you have out done yourself. When do you think, it will be ready to put into production?”
“Optimistically a week. But that is dependent on my father. I have been instructed to go home at the end of the day.”
“That you must. It is important to look after your family. If we lose our family, we lose the very reason to fight. Come, you have done enough here for the day, accompany me back to the city. I can only spend so long in these labs until the lighting gives me a headache.”
Oscar grabs a towel to wipe his hands. “Yes, Grandfather.”
Charles Jung
Strolling through the Imperial Gardens, Charles and Li find peace in the warmth of the evening sun. Shanxi has been good to them, better than it has been to so many others their age. Charles is just thankful that he still has a full head of hair.
A red sky covers the red planet. The moisture from the morning’s torrential weather has already been absorbed by the soil, making it look as if it had been as glorious throughout the day.
Separated from the rest of the city by a cream wall, the Imperial Gardens feel miles away from the neighbouring Political and Industrial Districts. The quiet makes it feel as though they are closer to the mountains to the west then they are to the rest of the colony.
Vibrant flora blossom throughout the gardens. Pavilions out in the middle of ponds provide seclusion for the rich and poor alike. Trees and flowers are lovingly tended for by gardeners and botanists, they fulfil the painstaking duty left in the absence of birds and insects. Both Charles and Li have forgotten the chirps and rustling that wildlife brings to nature.
“Wonder what it would have been like if we had girls?” Charles thought to himself out loud.
Li bursts into laughter. “I don’t think you could have handled girls.”
“I suspect.”
“They will be alright. They are still children. Remember it wasn’t until thirty-four that we had Alistair. We’d lived life, made something of ourselves. Alistair and Weishi were only twenty-one when they had Nicholas. Life for Chinese is different on Shanxi. Such burdens are placed upon them. We give them so little time to grow and find themselves. Oscar and Wesley will come into their own, in their own time. We must have faith.”
They cross over a small stream to find Li’s father resting on a stone bench, admiring the view of the mountains. He pretends not to have noticed their presence.
Charles and Li glance at one another with the same look of fatigue. Keeping at their leisurely pace they approach the Chairman. He looks surprised to see them, as if their meeting were mere coincidence.
“Good evening. Is it not a magnificent view? I hope that I did not interrupt anything,” said the Chairman.
“An evening stroll. Age catches up with you if you do not keep active,” Li said jokingly.
“As if you two know anything about age yet. Wait until you get to my age, taking the time just to sit is pleasure enough,” the Chairm
an ridiculed good naturedly.
“Let me guess, you would like to go for a drink?” Charles pre-empted his father-in-law.
*
A young beautiful girl and an older male counterpart sing from the stage of Salon de Ning. While she is flawless in every way, he sits on a stool with half a trouser leg rolled up to the stub where his leg once was. The contrast between the duo is a distinctly familiar sight on Shanxi.
The vermilion of the fabrics contrasts exquisitely with the Huanghuali furnishings. It is the most prestigious of all entertainment establishments within the city.
Around the Salon, waitresses and waiters keep the highest of standards as they serve each table, doing their best to be inconspicuous.
Sitting only tables apart, the most powerful members of the Neo-Shanxi Assembly and the most ruthless of Western businessmen enjoy the night’s performance. Respectfully people watch with only a few silent conversations taking place.
Charles and Zhang are taken to a private booth with a perfect view of the stage. Wasting no time the waitress brings them over their orders, compliments of the house as per usual.
“We should talk about your son,” said Zhang quietly.
Charles wants to politely ignore the Chairman, but knows the futility of doing so.
“He was brought up during the Shanxi Assembly today. If he is not careful, the CERE have every right to arrest him, then deport him. He will not be given a trial, just exiled to whatever remains of China.”
“My child is not of my creation. If I recall correctly, it was his grandfather that filled his head with tales of old China and the forgotten promise of a Chinese Delta-Nine,” retorted Charles.
The Chairman scoffs at the remark and resigns to the initial defeat, leaning back into his seat to ponder over how to approach the matter.
They turn their attention to the stage as the duo finish singing. The crowd modestly applaud the performance. Blushing slightly, the two performers congratulate the band as well as one another. The young beautiful girl steps up to the microphone and the room falls silent.
“Thank you,” she began, “you have been a wonderful audience tonight. We have a few more songs left this evening, but first I want to just take a break from singing and instead recite to you a poem.
“I first came across this poem when I was fifteen. Our headmistress took over our literary class and this was the first piece we were told to study. She taught us that the woman who wrote this was executed by a barbaric regime. But her death was in defiance of that regime.
“While these words that I am about to read to you stayed with me throughout my life, I fear many of the young women in my class forgot them and now sell themselves for the pleasure of men. If you will allow me, Capping Rhymes with Sir Ishii from Sun’s Root Land.”
The young performer recites each line with such articulation that even those who are ill versed in Chinese poetry are captivated. Waiters and waitresses stop serving to listen. The quiver in her voice disappears as her nerves subside. Alone in the spotlight, she stands before the rich and powerful of Shanxi.
Upon finishing the last line, she stares out to room of bemused faces. Hoping to break the tension she leans into the microphone. “Thank you.”
From the other side of the Salon, Zhang is the first to give a standing ovation. Taking a swig of his drink, Charles is no longer phased by the attention which his father-in-law brings on them.
A single tear runs down the Chairman’s cheek. Wanting to dismiss the idiosyncrasies of an old man, the sentiment of the young girl’s protest is too common for Charles to ignore. Scooting out from the booth, he joins Zhang in the applause.
The rest of the Chinese in the Salon are quick to follow their example.
“Thank you, thank you,” blushed the girl.
A lull in the room allows for the band to begin playing their next song. Walking off to the wing, the girl leaves the stage for her partner’s solo.
“Do you truly think Wesley is a product of my manipulation? Or do you think that these young people are angry? That they feel alienated. Their identity and home has been taken from them,” asked Zhang, sliding back into the booth.
“How do you suggest keeping my son out of trouble?”
“An old friend by the name of Sun Tzu came to Shanxi a few years ago. He was a hero to the independent Chinese still left on Earth, saving people from the Beijing and Shanghai Nationalist Forces. When Beijing struck a deal with CERE in exchange for his assassination, members of the SCR covertly agreed to offer him asylum in the colony. In return for his asylum he agreed to house some of our more outspoken youth,” explained Zhang.
Just as Charles is about to enquire further into this man the SCR have been hiding away from the CERE, the young singer approaches their booth. Bowing, she waits for them to acknowledge her presence. Charles and the Chairman share a smile and make room for her.
“Hello, my child,” Zhang greeted the young girl. “Please join us.”
“Thank you, Chairman. I am honoured that you could see me tonight.”
“Tell me, which is your passion, song or poetry? You are a gifted orator, as well as fortunate enough to have a golden voice,” complemented the Chairman.
Taken back by his kind words, she explained, “My headmistress was a wonderful woman. Empowering and a true intellect who had a passion for history and the arts. She passed on earlier this year. It was her who first taught me the strength that words could have. I believe regardless of how they are presented, it is just important that words are heard.”
“And tonight, I believe those words were indeed heard,” said Zhang, nodding in agreement whilst looking at Charles.
“What do you think is the future of your generation?” asked Charles.
Shocked to be asked such a pessimistic question from the man who gave her generation their birthplace and home, the girl thinks over her response.
“We are being exploited,” she began in a measured manner. “There are others who are clearly profiteering from our colony and yet we are powerless to resist. Our laws are not our own. Our culture is not our own. The words I spoke tonight are from a heritage that none of us can ever reconcile with. Despite their profundity, each line is merely stolen. Our lives are like raindrops that fall into the canyon. We are nothing more than a resource being used to build a better colony, priming the world for Westerners to come and snatch it from us. If we do not resist, we will be scorned by history.”
The last few chords of the song are played and once again the audience claps. Her partner on stage cracks a few light-hearted jokes, ushering her to come back on.
Waving back embarrassed, she turns to Charles and Zhang. “Excuse me.”
Alone together, Zhang waits for Charles to continue the conversation, topping up their glasses.
Charles sighs. “What does he do?”
“Runs a martial arts school in the Industrial District.”
“Military training. This is supposed to save my son from the CERE?” questioned Charles.
“It is a harmless group. He gives them discipline, focus…” Zhang attempted to reassure his old friend.
“Do not for a second think you can fool me,” interrupted Charles.
Amused by the comment, Zhang holds his drink in the air toasting Charles’ scepticism.
Charles leans back into his seat contemplating the words of the young girl. He wonders how many more like her there are. Whether his son’s behaviour is a symptom of deeper tensions concealed from him behind the veil of generational division. Has his complacency made him conservative?
Already knowing he has convinced his son-in-law, Zhang turns his attention to the duo performing their last song of the evening.
Wesley Jung
The lights are flicked on.
Unsure of the time, he concludes that it must still be the early hours of the morning due to the sting of his eyes. Hiding under the covers, he tries his best to ignore this rude awakening.
“Get up,” instru
cted Alistair.
“What is the time?”
“Almost four.”
“Why are you getting me up at four? Go back to bed yourself.”
“Put on some clothes and come to the dining room,” he said, closing the door.
Feeling put out, Wesley does as he is told and finds out his clothes.
Wandering through the dark hall of Alistair’s home, he heads for the dining room. The smell of breakfast wafts through the air. Suspicious of his brother’s intent, Wesley treads carefully so to not make a sound. He peers through the crack of the door and scouts the room.
At the table with his brother is their grandfather. As if the Chairman had some hidden sense, he turns his head to meet Wesley’s gaze. Swinging the door wide open, he sheepishly joins the two of them.
“Why am I not surprised?” said Wesley.
Alistair pours him some tea, which Wesley finds to be an odd act of kindness from his brother.
“Thank you?”
The Chairman inspects his grandson’s face, blankly looking at the dragon crawling up from his neck.
“Well you did say it was abrasive,” Zhang said to Alistair.
Quickly Wesley realising what they are talking about and becomes defensive. “That is none of your business. Why are you even here? It is so early in the morning.”
He turns his head back and forth between the two of them, waiting for a straight answer. The Chairman in a calculated manner defers responsibility of offering an explanation by taking a sip of his tea.
“Wesley, there is a problem. Yesterday at the Assembly the issue of extremist delinquent colonists was brought up by not only the head of the CERE, but by two senior members of SC. It was agreed that further conversations about introducing heavier penalties and sanctions would be discussed and decided upon in the next month or two. The current highest perpetrators would be subject to those new sanctions. Your name was on the list,” Alistair explained calmly.
