by Hao Jingfang
Juan remained resolute. “I don’t view that as a problem.”
“Have you not suffered enough?”
“We have!” said Juan. “That is why we must become powerful. We must go back and be victorious! We have the right to be strong. I see nothing wrong with that. Without us, the Terrans will kill themselves sooner or later with their self-destructive squabbles. We will eliminate the weak, save the soul of humankind from the frying pan of selfish profit. Earth should welcome us!”
“Utter nonsense!” Hans’s voice cracked. “These are mere excuses. You have the right to be strong, but you do not have the right to rob, to steal, to take from others what isn’t yours.”
“Without fighting, there is no survival.”
“No one is forcing you to choose that kind of life.” Hans finally said the words he had kept buried in his heart. “I will not allow war. As long as I’m consul, I won’t ever let you go to war.”
Juan paused, then pointed at the desert eagle badge on the lectern. “But you’ve already resigned.”
The chamber was absolutely silent.
Reini’s heart spasmed with pain. He saw how, during the exchange, Hans had leaned forward, his fingers pressed against the podium, his body shaking with emotion. This was the first time Hans had ever exposed his feelings like this in public, and it would likely be the only time. His brows knotted as the muscles on his face twitched; his eyes glared from under his white eyebrows, burning with helpless pain and resolve. Watching from a distance, Reini also felt the pain of helplessness. He was watching Hans struggle against an inevitable fate. He had seen its approach from years away, but he had no choice but to step forth and confront it now.
Reini understood why Hans was so persistent. As a little boy, Hans had seen his father, Richard, repent and regret in the middle of the night for his impulsive actions that precipitated the war. Richard was not a good war leader. The rebels made him their leader for symbolic reasons, but he hated it. In the grip of anger and grief, he murdered to avenge his wife, but he didn’t plan for everything that happened later. Many times, he told Hans, still a little boy then, that he did not want this, that he wished there were another way. As he sobbed and repented, the five-year-old Hans wiped away his tears.
Hans was born in an airplane and grew up on fighters. He had no fear of death. But the cries of the dead haunted his nightmares. When Richard died in old age, his last wish for his son was to stop the war. Hans gave Mars his all to obtain independence in order to achieve this last wish. He approved the Ceres project and Cerealia because he wanted to avoid having to fight with Earth for water.
Juan knew all of this and waited patiently for his chance. He was not a man who craved power for his own sake; rather, he was devoted to his philosophy the same way he was devoted to Hans, who had saved him. Hans and Juan were the rare pair who truly understood each other, which also made them rare opponents. To understand that two people who respected each other were often also the fiercest opponents was to understand the friendship and rivalry between these two.
Grateful to Hans, Juan had obeyed him through the years. Also grateful to Juan for his display of loyalty during the greatest crisis of his life, Hans had allowed him the autonomy he desired. Juan had not given in, but he was waiting for the right opportunity. Hans wasn’t fooled, but he understood that the root of the crisis lay in the spirit of the Martian nation, and if Juan didn’t express it, someone else would. Hans understood that Juan craved conquest, but he harbored the hope that if they could overcome their difficulties and maintain a good, independent existence, the desire for conquest would slacken over time. But Hans had been wrong. It was human desire that created life, and not life that created human desire.
In the past, Reini had always been able to keep himself from being invested in the events he observed, but now he felt the agony of the bystander for the first time. The recording equipment before him continued to whirl and capture the scene in full fidelity. The equipment took no side, taking in everything objectively. The objectivity was intolerably painful to him.
The Boule Chamber’s main door suddenly slammed open. A uniformed military captain strode into the chamber, located Juan, and walked right up to him. He leaned down to whisper in Juan’s ear, and Juan’s expression changed to shock before returning to normal. The captain didn’t leave, as though waiting for instructions. Juan glanced hesitantly at Hans.
“What happened?” asked Hans.
“It’s a matter within the jurisdiction of the Flight System.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing important.”
“Tell me!” Hans roared. “Even if you no longer recognize me as the consul, I remain a permanent director of the Flight System. I have the right to know and advise about the internal affairs of the system.”
After a beat, Juan answered in a quiet voice, “Two hydraulic engineering experts from Earth have escaped on a cargo shuttle.”
“What?”
“They ran away.”
“Why?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Then send people after them!”
“That’s not necessary,” said Juan, his voice cold and final. “I think that’s not necessary at all.”
ANKA
Anka glanced at the hazy sky outside the glass wall. The horizon was clear and sharp one minute and then a blur the next. I guess the storm predicted in the weather forecast is coming, he thought.
He tried to optimize his packing one more time. He pushed the headlamp, survival knife, and compressed dried food packets into the side pockets of his backpack. He wrapped the extra oxygen tanks inside the sleeping bag. Setting the backpack on the floor, he knelt on it to squeeze out as much air as possible and tightened the laces until the backpack was a neat and crisp rectangle. He was still unsatisfied, but he couldn’t think of any other improvements. The provisions for this mission exceeded the standard allocation, and the backpack was clearly bigger than usual. He wasn’t sure if it would fit inside the provision cubby, so he tried to measure it with his hand: three and a half palm widths, just at the limit.
Carefully opening the door to his dorm room, he peeked into the corridor. Empty. He stepped out, a book in hand, and gently pulled the door shut. He walked toward the coffee lounge.
The sky had grown even hazier. There were about two and a half hours left before the sun sank beneath the western horizon. As he walked, he gazed up at the glass dome, trying to determine the wind speed based on the drifting sand. The wind came in gusts, with periods of stillness in between. The storm wouldn’t arrive for another few hours. The digital clock on the wall showed that three hours had passed since the escaped cargo shuttle had been forced to land. Based on the standard amount of oxygen and supplies on cargo shuttles, the passengers should be all right for another five to six hours.
The dark blue of the sky was hidden behind a layer of sand.
There were about four or five people in the coffee lounge. One of them was telling tall tales while a few of his friends listened. On the far side someone was reading an e-notepad. Captain Fitz was nowhere in sight.
Anka poured himself a cup of coffee and walked to a table on the far side. He put the book on the table and took out a notebook, pretending to be studying as he doodled. The man at the other table didn’t look at him, and Anka didn’t look at him either. Earlier, at noon, he had sat in the lounge and overheard the news. There were fewer people now, and he hoped he would hear more.
Captain Fitz had been gone for an hour already. If he was planning to come back to the coffee lounge, then this was about the time he should be returning. He would wait half an hour. After that he’d try something else.
Anka tried to read, but only fragments of sentences managed to make it into his turbulent mind.
Nos frères respirent sous le même ciel que nous …
What kind of news will Captain Fitz bring back? thought Anka.
He reread the bits of L’Homme révolté again.
He liked the painful earth, the indefatigable navigator, the compressed nourishment, the harsh wind from the horizon, the ancient and fresh dusk. The words and phrases were as solid and simple as the Martian surface. He took a deep breath, and felt the chill in the air.
He had started reading this book last week. On the way here, he had grabbed it from the desk because it was easy to reach. Though he was in no mood to read, the sentences he had read before jumped back into view on their own.
He calculated in his head. If he left the city right now, he should be back in less than two hours. Thirty minutes to get there, twenty minutes for changing vehicles, and another seventy minutes to get back with some margin for safety. Of course, this assumed everything went according to plan, a straight course with no complications. Only two and a half hours remained before dark, which meant that he had to decide whether to depart within the next thirty minutes. He disliked flying at night, which increased the chances of something going wrong. He preferred not to take such risks, especially on a day like this.
Once again, he reviewed the potential course he would take. The map showed that the site of the accident wasn’t far: at the edge of the cliffs, before the craters. A straight flight path ought to do it. He could rely on the autopilot or take the stick himself. He was certain that he could find the site without trouble.
Captain Fitz still wasn’t back, but Anka knew with growing certainty that he had to go on this trip.
The man who sat at the other table was familiar to Anka. His name was Berger, a lieutenant colonel and Captain Fitz’s commanding officer, which meant Anka also belonged to his command. Earlier that day, when Anka had lunch here by himself, he happened to run into Fitz delivering a piece of urgent intel to Berger. Fitz belonged to Berger’s inner circle, and their whole wing was commanded by officers Juan trusted and relied on. Intel that most had no access to would sometimes be spread via gossip in this coffee lounge.
When Fitz saw Anka, he hesitated for a moment. But Anka pretended to be absorbed by his book. In a low voice, Fitz then told Berger that the shuttle carrying the two escaped Terran hydraulic engineering experts had suffered a malfunction and was forced to land at a mountain pass on the edge of the cliffs. An SOS call had gone out.
Anka glanced at the clock. It was now past four. Three and a half hours had passed since then.
Fitz was back.
As soon as he saw Fitz at the entrance to the coffee lounge, Anka lowered his eyes to the book, straining to look like he had been there the whole afternoon.
Fitz strode quickly to Berger. Without sitting down, he said in a low voice, “The orders are to not rescue them.”
Berger nodded, as though that was the answer he had expected all along. He asked Fitz what steps should be taken. Fitz didn’t answer right away but cast a suspicious look Anka’s way. Anka felt his gaze, closed his book, and stood up as though he had just remembered some appointment. As he walked out of the coffee lounge, he looked back. Fitz was sitting across from Berger, and the two were absorbed in conversation.
Anka rushed back to his dormitory. Time to carry out his plan.
He was no more surprised by this result than Berger. It was entirely foreseeable. From the moment he first heard the news about the escape, he had the feeling that the situation would develop this way.
Those two fools, thinking they could pilot a Martian spacecraft, Anka thought. Couldn’t they sense a trap? And even if it hadn’t been a trap, how could they imagine they could fly it? If an outsider can so easily steal a cargo shuttle and get away, then why does the Martian Flight System bother with years of training for their pilots? To fly from the surface all the way up to Maearth is a maneuver cadets who have been training for a few years already can’t accomplish, let alone two Terrans who know nothing about these machines.
The reason for their escape, on the other hand, is obvious. For the last couple of days, rumors that war is imminent have been rampant within the Flight System. Even people in other systems and ordinary engineers have heard them. The two Terrans must have thought their lives were in danger and sought to escape to Maearth by sneaking onto a cargo shuttle.
And then they crashed.
Juan isn’t going to rescue them because they’re the perfect sacrifices. He’ll tell everyone that the two Terrans had stolen crucial intelligence against Mars and were trying to escape. The secret Terran conspiracy against Mars, thus exposed, will stir up popular anger against Earth, leading to easy passage of a declaration of war.
Even if that plan doesn’t work out, the deaths of the two Terrans will enrage people on Earth, forcing their governments to launch a strike against Mars. Mars will then have to go to war to defend itself.
Juan has been looking for a casus belli for a long time, and these two Terrans have been working hard to deliver him one.
They don’t respect flight. Anyone who doesn’t give flight the respect it demands will pay a price. To fly is to gamble with your life.
Anka changed into his flight suit, put on his backpack, and stepped out into the corridor. He took one more look around his room: still reasonably neat, with two shirts draped on the back of his chair and the pillow and bedding arranged for bedtime. He thought about taking the model airplane, a gift from Luoying, but after hefting it, he decided it was too awkward to carry.
He wondered if he should send a message to Luoying first to let her know of his plans. But after glancing at his watch, he decided against it. He was already tight on time, and besides, he knew that Luoying was part of that rally today; she was probably too busy to check her messages.
I’ll talk to her when I’m back tonight. Assuming I make it back.
He strode through the corridors, deliberately picking a roundabout route that he normally didn’t use to avoid bumping into any friends or acquaintances. There was no group training that day, so pilots were returning to the dorm by twos or threes. After the intense drills and missions of the last few days, most of the pilots just wanted to catch up on their rest. The corridors were deserted, with all the dorm rooms’ white doors shut.
His own footsteps sounded like the regular beating of a cold heart. He was thinking about Luoying and the others from the Mercury Group, wondering what they were up to. Their rally had started hours ago. He wasn’t a participant, but he was on the distribution list for their group messages and knew the plans. He never joined the discussions but observed from a distance.
He had no idea how to explain to Luoying his own feelings. She had asked him if he was going to participate, and he had answered ambivalently. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about what they were doing, but he didn’t believe in that kind of movement.
What are they hoping to accomplish? To change the system? And then what? To change the way people live? What’s the use? That won’t solve the real problem. Any lifestyle or system is going to have flaws, unfairness, prejudices. The solution isn’t to change the system. In the pursuit of perfection, humans have tried all kinds of systems, all of which have unfairness. The only difference is how those who benefit choose to sing their world’s praises. The real problem is human nature. If a man oppresses others, he will do so no matter what kind of system is in place. What’s the point of hoping for change? There is no hope.
The problems of human nature can be changed only through human nature, but there is no such solution. However, an individual’s problems can be solved by helping that individual. When there is a specific injustice, then it’s possible to confront that specific injustice. That is all we can do. Nothing else.
Even in the most perfect society, there will be children who die unjustly. All human effort can achieve is to reduce, like an arithmetic series, the infinite sufferings of the world.
Anka was walking quickly and calmly. He wasn’t nervous at all, though he was concerned. Nervousness did no good. It was his habit to focus on specific details to keep the instinct to panic at bay. He was concerned about the color of the sky. The pink had darkened, meaning the wind was rising.
The dust storm was approaching. It was still far away, but it could speed up at any moment. He had to complete his mission before the storm arrived.
There was no one at the airfield. No one would be so foolish as to fly in weather like this. He approached his own fighter and popped the canopy. Around him, the other parked fighters looked like a school of white sharks resting at sea. On the sides of every fighter, under the cockpit, flame decals evoked the toothy grin of a shark. In the quiet of the airfield, some consciousness seemed to be breathing in its sleep. After the tumult of the military parade and intensive training of the last few days, the ferocious beast was at rest for the moment.
Anka opened the supply cubby and pushed the backpack in; it barely fit. He had brought enough food and oxygen for two extra people in case they had to spend the night outside the city. The tiny fighter could seat only two, and the cargo bay intended for emergencies was filled with the giant folded wings and the motor. There was no extra space. Anka checked to be sure he had enough solid fuel. He checked the air intake, the valves, the spark plug. Everything seemed fine.
Having repaired this fighter himself, he was as familiar with it as with his own body.
He had taken part in the drills the day before. The fighter had performed well—at least, it had kept up with the others, which gave him some confidence. He had not known that he had the skills to be a mechanic, though he had done it only because he refused to submit to Fitz, and he didn’t think open confrontation with Fitz was wise.
The drills had involved flying in tactical formations. Twenty-five fighters had flown in three different formations, attacking jet-propelled airships with laser cannons. The drills provided the commanders with valuable data on how well the fighters supported one another and how quickly they overcame their enemies. Anka enjoyed the drills. He had to admit that diving through the air, covering one’s brothers-in-arms and being covered by them, striking the target, and then glancing back at the arc one had made through the sky—this was the most thrilling experience one could have in the world. Even if he hated war, he liked the sensation of living on that speeding edge.
