by Hao Jingfang
He waited in the Boule Chamber for Juan and the other directors. The chamber appeared especially empty after the noise and clamor. A terrible premonition grew in him, though he tried to dismiss it as merely the side effect of exhaustion.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. So many scenes from earlier in the day, from earlier in his life, went through his mind. He thought about old friends, about the four decades of conflict and friendship between Mars and Earth. The cleaning staff kept their distance, unwilling to disturb him. As Hans looked at them going about their routines, he felt like an outsider, an audience member watching the curtain fall on the stage.
He had been waiting for Juan and the other directors, but instead the terrible news came. He couldn’t believe his ears, and his hands locked around the shoulders of the messenger like a pair of vises. He demanded more details, hoping that they would allow him to point out that the news was false. He so wanted it to be false.
* * *
When I saw that boy’s body, Galiman—Hans whipped around at the window to face the man on the bed—do you know how much I wished it was I who lay there instead of him?
He slammed his fist against his chest, as though that were the only way to soothe his heart.
He saw that scene again, that terrifying but unavoidable memory. He couldn’t forget it and would not allow himself to forget it. He forced himself to confront the terror of recollection.
The boy lay in the lone bed in the middle of the room. The walls were a dark blue, allowing only a little of the sun through.
The boy lay in shadow. Hans approached him, step by step. The white sheet draped over him made him look as though he had died in his sleep, but up close the twisted, broken body, the result of multiple impacts and heavy trauma, showed through the sheet. Hans lifted the sheet and forced himself to take in the reality. Then he gently put the sheet back down.
The body resembled a disassembled machine. The head and face were smashed beyond recognition. All the limbs had been fractured multiple times, and broken ribs poked out of the skin like unsheathed knives. A few long red scars on his body resembled the marks from a fight, but Hans knew them for what they were: the surgeons’ desperate attempt to save the boy. But it was impossible to save a boy who had fallen from the sky, whose every bone had been broken. It was only because he had been dressed in a survival suit that the body was not torn to pieces, lost to the storm.
Hans extended a trembling hand, trying to caress the boy’s forehead. But he couldn’t touch him. He never sobbed aloud, but his whole body shook like a leaf in autumn.
* * *
This is my fault. Galiman, do you understand? It’s my fault.
Hans pressed against the window ledge as though trying to push it into the ground.
The man who should have died is me. It’s the fate that I imagined for myself in my youth, but because I’ve lost my courage, he died in my place, for my error. No, don’t tell me that’s not true. It is. It is my fault.
I deceived myself by reciting an empty aspiration, but I didn’t do anything. I spoke about peace, about communication, but I allowed the desire for conquest to grow like weeds. I thought it was possible to stop the war with my orders, but when an army burns with the desire for war, how can I possibly stand in their way? This isn’t Juan’s fault; he’s no more than the tip of the roaring flame, and I’ve been consumed by the fire.
When they told me that the Terrans had escaped, do you know what I thought at that moment? I wasn’t thinking of their safety; I was only thinking of what effect they would have and what role they’d play in the negotiations with Earth. I saw them for their utility, not as human beings. Anka should not have died. If we had dispatched rescue ships right away, everyone would have been safe. What were we thinking? We were playing a game of chess.
Anka died in my place. He died for a weak, foolish old man’s youthful self. I am beyond ashamed.
Hans tightened his fists, squeezed his eyes shut. He leaned outside the window and lifted his head as though trying to release the repressed air from his lungs with a long howl. But he didn’t make any noise. In the moonlight, his arms and shoulders were tensed as hard as a sheet of iron.
After a long time, he relaxed, revealing even more exhaustion. He turned and sat back down next to Galiman, gazing with anguish at the peaceful face of his friend.
I didn’t tell you, old friend, that my Luoying loved that boy. I don’t know how to face her. I’ve hurt so many people I care about in my life. I’ve sinned so much.
* * *
Hans stood by the window. By the time he sat down next to Galiman again, he seemed far calmer. The night was deep, and the lights in the other hospital rooms went off one by one.
Galiman, I’ve wronged so many in my life, including you.
I watched over the vote that decided to abandon your city. Are you angry at me? Are you unhappy that I didn’t consult you? Are you going to, like before, argue with me until you’ve convinced me? Will you rage and shake your fists at me when you’re awake? I hope you do. I really hope you do. Then I’ll know that you’re still you, and I’ll feel better.
Hans lowered his head. So many things had happened all on the same day, as though to destroy his sanity. Luoying had rebelled just like Quentin, and then the simmering dispute with Juan exploded. And after that came the news about Anka, the nightlong search and desperate surgery, followed by seeing his corpse in the morning. Finally, on the verge of collapse, he nonetheless had to preside over the vote at the Boule.
Maybe this is the day both our lives will end.
There were two proposals up for a vote at the Boule this morning. One passed; one didn’t. The proposal that passed was the Climbers’ migration plan for the use of the water from Ceres. This was predictable. After living inside a sealed box for more than half a century, the idea of living in an open environment proved an irresistible temptation. The proposal that failed was Juan’s plan to attack Earth. Juan had been building support for it in secret for months, and it seemed guaranteed to pass—until the news of Anka’s death. It was impossible for the legislators to ignore his sacrifice. And the Terrans who had been rescued, out of gratitude, agreed to do all they could to help Mars in the upcoming negotiations with Earth.
There were multiple other small proposals. A vote like this happened once a year, and most proposals had been debated extensively in the central archive ahead of time. The vote at this point was a mere formality. Only the most important decisions would result in difficult differences of opinion.
From the dais, Hans carried out his last duty before his resignation became final. The sunlight, as peaceful as every other morning and unmoved by the grief or change below, scattered from the domed ceiling to illuminate everyone. Hans went through the familiar routines without any change in his usual demeanor. Despite a night of emotional turmoil, he acted as the perfect consul at the vote.
As Hans signed his name and added his seal to the passed resolution to implement the Climbers’ plan, his hand hesitated for one second. He knew that as soon as the seal was pressed into the wax, the city that he and Galiman had fought for all their lives would become history.
His expression remained placid. He would wait until the abyss of the night to suffer the storm of his heart.
* * *
Normally, Hans resisted falling into reverie of the past, thereby avoiding the weakness and hesitation brought by memories. But once in a while he would slowly open the locked sluice gates of his heart, like a solemn rite, and let the flood of memories pour out. He would stand in the waterfall of memories, allowing the invisible water to strike his body.
As a child, he had lived in houses of stone and sand. In archive films, he had seen the half-buried shelters of old Mars, though he had never lived in them. His earliest memories involved cold caves and were permeated by the sounds and sights of war: preparing for war, scouting for war, fighting, observing, advancing, retreating. There was waiting, terror, more waiting, more terror.
Deaths, so many deaths. Homes collapsing into rubble right in front of his eyes.
The earliest homes were in caves, with exterior metal sheathing. The metal sheaths, which had to be thin due to lack of resources, couldn’t prevent radiation. In bombings, these caves were often buried, trapping those inside in tombs. The Martians struggled in such difficult circumstances for twenty years until Galiman, later in the war, made his breakthrough.
Glass was the most easily obtained resource on Mars. It was easy to mold and assemble and could quickly take shape with pressurized air. Destroyed glass structures were relatively easy to rebuild. Galiman’s houses were not mere buildings but entire miniature enclosed ecosystems. The houses produced energy, regenerated air, circulated water, cultivated living organisms, and broke down waste. It was like an acrobat carefully keeping many spinning plates in balance. In the heat of war, the Martians burrowed into the ground, and on the ruins of the old they quickly blew up new homes like crystal bubbles.
Hans never witnessed the kind of slaughter described in ancient history. His war was fought in space, and even later, as a pilot, he never saw the faces of his enemies. In his childhood memories, war involved occasional explosions: without flames, without whining bombers, without clouds of billowing dust and smoke. A heavy metal bomb would simply fall and plunge into the ground and explode with a dull thud, causing half a mountainside to fall and bury the caves, whose inhabitants would be left in a permanent slumber. Such incidents only occurred once every few months, but the days between were filled with terror. The more rarely such attacks occurred, the more terrifying they became through anticipation. The Martians grew used to living in the darkness, without sight of the sky, until Galiman’s houses allowed them to face the oncoming missiles with a steady gaze. The houses gave them the courage to face the sky, to expose their terror to the cosmos, as well as the tenderness in their hearts.
* * *
Galiman, back then you were so brave. You weren’t even twenty yet, and yet you had no fear of slamming the table as you advocated your plan to the elders. Surprisingly, none of them got mad. Do you still remember that? You were a genius, a roaring lion.
Could you have imagined today? All of us were so young back then, still teenagers. Do you remember us drinking and boasting, imagining we would become pillars of the future republic? We were just joking then, but we managed to make those dreams come true. No one can take away what we’ve done. But are you satisfied? How much has this living republic deviated from the one in our idealized imaginations?
You’ve always been too proud. Your pride is why your enemies despise you, and also why your friends admire you. You are too proud to even boast of your accomplishments, thinking it beneath you. You never mention your contributions, treating them, and allowing others to regard them, as mere details, nothing worth making a fuss about. But only I know how much you care about all that you’ve done. Why can’t you put away your pride and admit it? You love your technology, your creations; you are so dedicated to them that you agonize over every aspect of them. Even the weekend before the disease finally brought you down, you were researching the heat properties of silicon-based materials in order to improve the glass houses. Why can’t you let everyone know about that? There’s no shame in caring about your creations. If you weren’t so proud, perhaps those who didn’t understand you wouldn’t have viewed you as an old man hoarding his position based on past accomplishments—and would have been willing to help you to improve our future.
Galiman, in the end I had to sign the document that will result in the abandonment of your city—our city. Are you going to hate me? I’ve always hoped you’d awaken one of these days, but right now I hope you’ll never wake up. Then you can always live in your idealized dream without facing the relentless reality and the ruins of this forsaken city. I don’t know what’s worse: a life of frustration and hardship, or to have all your accomplishments taken away right before death.
Old friend, I’m still here. Can you hear me?
Hans knew that Galiman couldn’t hear anything he said, but he wanted to tell him everything. He knew that the person lying here was no longer the young man he knew, a lion in his prime, but a powerless old man asleep like a child. All the sharp claws of his disposition had been retracted, all his yesterdays put away.
* * *
Of all the things that had happened in Hans’s long life, the one that gratified him the most was that he and his friends had made important contributions to Mars. He became consul; Galiman devised the glass houses; Ronen crisscrossed the Solar System, caring for Ceres; Garcia captained Maearth for thirty years, established diplomatic relations with Earth, and negotiated for the student exchange program. They had fought side by side as comrades, and that fight had continued even after the war as they fought together for the republic, for a vision.
For five decades, there was no recrimination between them, no breakdown, no deception. This was the greatest joy and pride of Hans’s life. He rued not being able to protect his friends and disappointing their hopes. He couldn’t save Garcia from being pushed out of the bureaucratized system; couldn’t protect the settlement on Ceres that Ronen loved; couldn’t even save Mars City, for which they had all given so much. He had not been a good friend, but none of them had blamed him. Their friendship, Hans felt, was the greatest gift of his life.
Since Ronen and Garcia spent most of the later parts of their careers far from Mars, Hans’s closest companion turned out to be Galiman. They had gone through the ups and downs of postwar Martian politics together, built the new city together, experienced the pain of losing children together. Galiman’s son and daughter-in-law had died in an accident when their spaceship, returning from Phobos, exploded during descent. It was similar to Quentin and Adele’s fate. The shared experience, though undesired, brought them closer. A companion who understood your pain was the best medicine for the bitter years.
Five years earlier Hans had switched Luoying with Galiman’s grandson, Pierre, sending her instead of him to Earth. He hadn’t been sure whether it was a good thing or not to go to Earth, and since Galiman’s only family was this boy, Hans didn’t want to put him in danger. Instead, he sent Luoying, because even then she seemed full of new ideas, waiting to be stimulated.
* * *
Galiman, Pierre is a good child. You must be happy to have such a grandson. He faced greater pressure this time than anyone else. After the debates, many of the elders shook their heads, saying that he had betrayed your final wish, betrayed what you worked all your life to build. But I know you wouldn’t think that way, old friend. I listened to his speech, and he hasn’t given up your dream; instead, he’s changed it and brought it into the sky. Only Pierre understands what you’ve done, your technology. He inherited your curly hair and your intelligence but not your leonine ferocity. His name will be remembered by generations to come, of that you may be certain.
Pierre is better than Rudy. He knows what’s most important to him. Your grandson supported my grandson, and I signed the order to give up your glass houses. We said we wanted to be as close as brothers, to fight side by side all our lives. Have we fulfilled our promise? What about them? Will they even want such a promise? The things that mattered so much to us … will they matter to them at all?
Perhaps it’s time for us to hand the world on to our descendants. They don’t think the way we do, and maybe their thinking is what’s needed now. They don’t understand the meaning of security and thus don’t understand our lifelong pursuit. What they crave is a stage, only a stage. They envy us only because we once dominated the stage. Perhaps it’s time to yield the stage to them.
Old friend, it’s time for us to rest. Ronen is already dead, and Garcia is dying aboard Maearth. And you … well, the end of the road is close at hand for all of us. I know that if all of you were gone, I wouldn’t want to keep on going either. Perhaps it’s time for all of us to plan to reunite in another state of existence.
Hans held Galiman’s hand for
a long time before gently placing it under the blanket. The walls were still a deep azure, and the night was silent. Near the floor, behind the walls, a ring of lilies bloomed.
* * *
Galiman, everyone speaks of how much you’ve given of yourself to your career. But you and I both know that it’s not the person who gives himself to his career but his career that gives itself to the person. What we’ve done and continue to do are parts of ourselves, and without them we’d be incomplete. The young are always impatient when they hear their elders recount their accomplishments, but that’s because they don’t understand that we just don’t want to lose ourselves. Old friend, you should be satisfied. You’ve accompanied your life’s work to the end of your own life, and it will end together with you. Few can be as fortunate.
Hans buried his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees.
What about me? I’ve spent all my life making decisions, but what kind of decisions have I made? One of my dearest friends I sent into space, and I decided to destroy the city another dear friend spent his life building. I sent my son to Deimos. And I punished Reini, the one person I admired the most among the new generation, so that he would never have a proper career. What kind of life’s work is this? Has my life been a life of failure?
I’m not optimistic about the future. I can only say this to you, old friend, because you, like me, are no longer a player on the stage. The youths are always discussing the central archive, but they don’t understand what makes our central archive function. Our population is only twenty million, not even as large as a medium-sized city on Earth. They speak with pride of how Mars’s two million strong once managed to defeat Earth’s twenty billion. But the small population is the foundation of our stability, our system. Our freedom of communication has an upper limit, and we’ve already grown so much that we’re pressing up against it.
