The Family

by Saxon Keeley

  “Jung? What are you doing?” questioned one of them.

  “Little white dragon of Shanxi. Come, play at war with us...”

  This time they all heard it. They head for cover, leaving Wesley exposed in the middle of the street. Calling him over, none can reach the mesmerised soldier.

  He scans his surround area, trying to find the one beckoning him. A flicker in the sky triggers his targeting system. Flying high above him is the magpie. Realising they have once again stumbled into a trap, he spins around to his squad.

  “The rooftops,” a soldier yelled.

  A synchronised assault rains down upon them. Not a single shot misses its target. Rounds rip through their armour as it were made of paper. Red splatters stain the white snow. The soldiers who survive the initial onslaught fire wildly at nothing. Their systems cannot detect their attackers.

  The futile resistance does not last long. Bodies lay dead in the snow, while Wesley stands unscathed.

  “White Dragon, come…”

  Turning his back on the massacre, Wesley heads farther down the dark street. The closer he gets to the figures swaying from the lampposts, the more they remind him of what he’d discovered hanging in the workshop. This time however, they are not colonists. Each of them wear green armour, a helmet with an orange visor and the character ‘brave’ sprayed on their chests.

  “Little dragon. You have found us…”

  At the end of the trail of bodies, standing atop a three-story building, is a female soldier dressed in black and blue. Her auburn hair whips about in the blizzard. A bandana sits around her forehead. Flapping in the wind is a black leather half-skirt. At knife point Sun Tzu kneels, stripped naked and beaten.

  “At last little white dragon, I see you. Youngest of the three sons. I see you,” the woman said lyrically.

  Blood trickles down Sun Tzu’s wrinkled skin. Shivering in the cold, he no longer has the strength to fight back.

  “Run,” he shouted, without looking at him.

  “You are but a child playing at a game you know nothing about,” she insulted. “Nothing.”

  The blade cuts deep. Sun Tzu jerks about as his throat is torn into. A flood of crimson fluid drains over his chest. As he chokes, a violent life of war comes to an end.

  Before Wesley can act, a sniper takes their shot. The bullet tears through the back of his helmet, destroying the internal computer systems. The force of the impact knocks Wesley unconscious.

  A loud piercing screech rings in his ears. Wesley opens his eyes to distorted flashing images. Feeling nauseous, he removes his helmet to find it soaked with blood from a cut at the back of his head. Wesley imagines that he has only been out for a minute or two.

  Couching in front of him is the redheaded woman. Her skin is a tapestry of combat and age. The letters ‘S.E.L.’ are engraved into her breastplate. Around her arm is a band with an emblem of a magpie. She studies him with the same mannerisms as the bird. Reaching for his rifle, he finds it has already been seized. As he stands, she mimics.

  Magpie smiles with open arms. “Here I am. Nothing stands between me and you, little dragon.”

  Muffled cries come from the nearby storehouse. Women and children plea for help. Magpie watches his indecisive reactions. Taking a step forward, she takes one step backwards.

  Again, the cries call out. Wesley turns his attention to the building. The open doorway leads to a pitch-black corridor. It is most certainly a trap, but the colonists’ screams play on his conscience. Submitting to her game, Wesley races into the storehouse.

  In the darkness, he follows the calls. He runs his hand along the concrete wall to guide himself, memorising the path to the exit just in case. A strong whiff of chemicals leaves him lightheaded.

  To maintain his focus, Wesley recites Yong Squads five rules: You let one down, you let all down; Individuals die, units survive; Broken windows lead to broken limbs; Sun Tzu is absolute; Chinese we are, Chinese we will stay.

  Never has Wesley felt so alone. Those who chose to join him only wound up dead. Never has he felt so venerable. His helmet shattered beyond use and nothing to defend himself with. The Neo-Shanxi Army’s General is dead. There is no longer anyone in charge of this operation. And finally, the CERE bodies decorating the ceiling of the workshop. As much as Shanxi has been played, so too have the people of Maia. Ethnicity was the powder keg that ignited this whole revolt, yet no one seems to know why they are fighting. How foolish have they all been.

  Finding a closed door with a dim light shining though the bottom, Wesley cautiously enters. The rusty hinges, something he has never experienced before, shriek as the door opens. In the centre of the room he finds Chinese colonists tied to barrels. Though they are all blindfolded, they turn to face him.

  “Help us, please,” one of them sobbed.

  “I will get you out,” Wesley reassured them.

  Without a knife or anything sharp laying around in the room, the restraints are near on impossible to undo. Realising that fiddling about with the knots is not doing anything to help, he looks around for another way to free them. Peering behind one of the captives, Wesley finds a small detonator blinking red. Not having pieced it together until this very moment, the smell of chemicals is coming from the barrels. With little time left, Wesley makes a run for it.

  “Wait!” screamed the colonists. “Where are you going?”

  A bright white light blisters through concrete, engulfing the whole building. The intense heat melts all it can.

  Any material left is scorched by the chemical compound, fizzling away. The air becomes toxic. Charred pieces of the colonists remain, none of which could be said to resemble anything human.

  Flaying out onto the street, Wesley squeals as the chemical splash corrodes the skin down the right side of his face. It does not take long for the chemical to eat its way through his exoskeleton, burning his neck and chest. To smother the pain, he buries himself into the snow. His throat swells and he beings to suffocate.

  *

  “He is awake. Get the doctor,” instructed a familiar voice.

  “Wesley, do not move. Stay right where you are, someone is coming to help,” said another familiar voice.

  Mustering the will to open his eyes, Wesley finds himself in a makeshift infirmary. Dressing covers half his face, while his neck and chest are wrapped in bandages. Lodged down his larynx is a tube feeding him oxygen. The anaesthetic does little to negate the immense discomfort he is experiencing. His brothers wait by his bedside as someone fetches assistance.

  Attempting to speak, Wesley gags, then coughs in agony.

  “The doctor said you should not talk,” said Alistair.

  Moving his arm, Wesley does not get far before realising he is attached to an IV. Pulling at the tubes, he raises his hand to inspect his injuries. He cannot feel a thing.

  “Do not touch,” cautioned Alistair, placing his brother’s arm back down to his side.

  “The doctor will be here soon. Just lay still,” said Oscar, peering out into the hallway.

  Having regained some clarity in his thoughts, Wesley is desperate to be given an update on everything that has happened since he fell asleep. Gesturing to his brothers, he hopes they understand.

  “The time?” Alistair asked confused.

  “You have been out for a day, pretty much twenty-four hours. Or at least since they found you,” explained Oscar, realising what his brother was asking.

  “The soldiers who rescued the family from the Foundry went straight back out to look for you. You are the only survivor,” continued Alistair, then his tone changed, “no one else has managed to come back from the central district. There is no communication. All our satellite imagery shows no activity, yet the colonists tell us that is where the worst of the fighting is. No one knows what is going on.”

  Tears run down Wesley’s cheek. Trying to hold back his emotions in fear of the physical pain it will cause him, he fails to do so.

  “I am sorry brother.”
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br />   At that moment, the doctor bursts into the room, barging past Oscar. Flipping through Wesley’s readings on his tablet, he peers over his glasses at the young soldier. Quietly contemplating, the brothers wait for the news.

  “I thought I told you two not to excite him?” scolded the doctor. “Mr Jung, I will be honest, how you survived is beyond any of the staff here. You have suffered third degree burns to your face, neck and chest. We have cleaned your wounds and cut away some of the tissue to ensure it is clear of chemicals. There is still some material from your suit fused to your skin. Of course, this means there is a danger that it may contain some chemical residue, so we shall extract it when you have had time to rest. Proper treatment, in terms of skin grafts, will have to wait until we return to Shanxi. We will do the best we can for you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said Oscar.

  “The chemical you were exposed to blistered your windpipe. I can give you something for the pain, but speaking and swallowing may be unpleasant for months to come. In the meantime, we will feed you fluids and oxygen through tubes,” explained the doctor, then he paused. “It was amazing that they found you when they did.”

  Tapping the dressing on his face, Wesley wants to see for himself.

  “I strongly advise against that Mr Jung.”

  Watching his brother become distressed, Oscar intervenes. “Show him.”

  Finding a mirror from the nearby dresser, Alistair holds it out in front of Wesley. The doctor carefully pulls away the dressing, his hands shaking all the while. With it completely removed, Wesley stares long and hard at his reflection.

  Where his dragon once was, white stiff leathery skin disfigures his hansom face. It looks as though his skin has fused with his teeth. Very little covers the jawbone. With a small nod, the doctor redresses the wound and leaves the brothers in peace.

  “It looks bad now, but when we return home they will have you back to the way you were,” Oscar attempted to comfort him. “Much more of this and we will need to withdraw.”

  “That is out of the question,” said Alistair.

  Closing the door, Oscar does not wish to disrupt the rest of the floor. Hanging his head, he is just about to speak when Alistair interrupts.

  “We are not leaving those people trapped in the central district.”

  “Alistair, we are not fighting some crusade. We were supposed to restore stability to the colony, yet casualties have far exceeded expectation. Both in civilian and our forces. Our own brother amongst them. It is reasonable to accept that we have done all that we can. Call the evacuation and bring the colonist in the resistance camp back to Shanxi with us.”

  “Grandfather trusted us to bring peace to Maia,” countered Alistair.

  “And, where is he? Home, safe. Do not let Grandfather move us like pawns.”

  “If we cannot quell a civilian force, what chance do you think Shanxi will have against the full might of the CERE?” Alistair explained the full extent of their colony’s transgression. “This has never been about Maia. It is about our future. If we leave now, Shanxi will show it is weak.”

  Having listened to his brothers bicker for long enough, Wesley goes to speak, forgetting about the tubes in his throat. The pain leaves him squirming about in bed. Both brothers rush to his care, Oscar administers some pain relief by the simple press of a button. They wait for him to relax.

  “Do not move. Lay back and get some sleep,” insisted Alistair.

  Oscar tries one last time to convince his brother. “There will be no army to defend Shanxi if we stay here. The CERE will not see us as weak, but just. Peacekeepers in a conflict too far for them to mediate themselves. If you cannot do this for our people, then do it for our brother.”

  The medication has made Wesley too drowsy for him to protest. His anger subsides to pity. Then pity into shame. Laying there powerless, his eyelids become heavy. Before he drifts off to sleep he hears the end of his brothers’ argument.

  “Our army will have until sunrise. We will launch one last expedition to save as many colonists from the Foundry as possible. Then we will evacuate.”

  “Thank you, brother…”

  *

  A loud splutter from the next room wakes Wesley. Unsure of how long he has been asleep, the fact it is still dark means there is still time. There is no way Wesley is leaving Maia with her alive.

  He pulls the IV drips from his arm. Tilting his head back as far as it will go, he tugs the tubes out from his throat. His insides feel raw, gagging and choking as the last few inches are removed. Each short sharp breath of Maia’s cold air is punishing. Almost regretting his actions, Wesley looks at the tubes and forgoes reinserting them.

  Sneaking along next door, he finds a small ward with the injured sprawled across the floor. Many of these men have only received basic treatment to keep them alive, a result of the unexpected workload that the medical staff are trying to keep up with. Most of their wounds need redressing. Others desperately need their next dosage of pain relief. Resting in one of the only beds is the Westerner who refused Wesley’s help at the bridge.

  “What do you want?” the Westerner disgruntledly questioned in his best English.

  Leaning in close, Wesley fights to get each of his words out. “Know…happened…workshop. Not…Chinese. Dark…Zone, who?”

  “You saw?” uttered the man. “No one knows who they are. No one comes back alive. They gave the colonists weapons, then they went to war against them.”

  “Why…kill…Chinese?”

  Sheepishly the Westerner averts his gaze, he cannot fathom an answer. Wesley begins to understand the fear that has gripped this planet. Leaving the man to his own guilt, Wesley searches for some armour.

  The generals relay Alistair’s orders and the battle along the canal intensifies. The wounded are dragged through the camp. Soldiers ferry crates of ammunition to the frontline. Others prepare the Grey Herons for the evacuation. Without a squad, Li has been assigned to such menial tasks.

  From the shadows, Wesley calls him over away from the watchful eyes of their superiors.

  Taking one look at him, Li knows he has snuck out. “What are you doing here? You need to be resting.”

  “Squad…dead,” Wesley informed him.

  “I know, Sun Tzu too. Their bodies are still out there,” Li admitted.

  “Soldiers…Foundry.”

  “You mean the CERE have forces on Maia?”

  Wesley shakes his head. “S…E…L.”

  “S.E.L.?” questioned Li. “We have been given the order to withdraw.”

  “Cannot…leave…unfinished,” said Wesley. “Come…”

  Taking a deep breath, Li contemplates the dangers they would be walking into. They would have no backup, confronting an unknown enemy that slaughtered their comrades. Executed their leader. Destroyed the family Li had found. It is anger that drives him. The same anger driving Wesley.

  “For Yong Squad,” he said with a steely look of determination.

  *

  Passed the fighting along the canal, Li and Wesley return to the silent narrow streets that weave in and about the concrete factories and warehouses. To avoid detection, they have both ditched their helmets. Following the route Li used to find Wesley, their old tracks have been erased by the snow and the blood from the massacre buried.

  The bodies hanging from the lampposts tell them that they are heading in the right direction. This time however, the whole street is adorned with bodies. Colonists, Western and Chinese, and Shanxi soldiers dangle above the blanketed ground. Their skin turned shades of blue and purple. Icicles drip from their fingertips.

  Outside the ruins of the storehouse, Sun Tzu is displayed, suspended from his ankles. Naked and maimed, he has been bled like an animal.

  Venturing blindly farther into the Foundry, the occasional burst of gunfire is their only clue of S.E.L.’s whereabouts. Craters scar the grey concrete structures. Red shadows reveal the nature of executions. Frozen under the snow lay their victims. Men,
women and children, the killing is indiscriminate.

  Stamping her foot down into the chest of a civilian, Magpie pins him in place. Unconcerned with his begging, her mannerisms once again imitate that of the bird’s. Pressing the muzzle of her pistol against his forehead, his begging turns into blubbering. She squeezed the trigger.

  Fragments of bone and brain splatter the wall. She lifts her foot and the corpse rolls into the snow. Surrounded by those in her command, Magpie basks in the butchery.

  Out from the darkness, Wesley stands alone before the soldiers of black and blue. They find his presence amusing, but none as much as their auburn-haired leader.

  “Little white dragon, you are tougher than I gave you credit,” she said. Stepping forward to greet him, she signals for her squad to stay put. “Still you have learnt nothing. The gift of a second life was bestowed upon you, yet you come crawling back into the frays of death, relinquishing yourself of such mercy.”

  Magpie raises her pistol, yet he does not falter. A quick glance over at the alleyway is enough to give away his plan. But it is too late. Before she can warn her men, Li jumps out from behind cover and aims the grenade launcher at the distracted group of soldiers. Her squad are blown limb from limb.

  Spinning back around, Magpie too is caught off guard. Giving her no chance to retaliate, Wesley aims his shot and fires. She lands with her face in the bloodied snow.

  Li steps over the bodies, confirming the kills. The lenses of the masks are cracked. On each of their armbands, they each wear emblems of beasts, insects and birds that neither of the Neo-Shanxi boys recognise. There is one body they leave until last. Her hair fluttering in the blizzard.

  Above them, the squawking bird rests on a ledge, watching as ever.

  Jabbing the body with the butt of his Dragon Crescent, Wesley is confident enough to examine closer. To his surprise, she rolls overs easily. Caught in the breast plate is the bullet. Her eyes open, fixed on Wesley.