Bottomless grief consumed the Syung estate for weeks. The desolation in her parents’ eyes made clear: They never saw it coming, nor did they understand why. Dae, who spent his life coveting every moment at his dear brother’s side, lapsed into days of isolation. When sobbing ended and tears dried, the family searched for answers. They never said the word aloud, though everyone surely thought it. But no Syung ever committed suicide, and no Syung ever would.
For her part, Kara held tight to that final moment with Lang, even keeping it from Chi-Qua.
He was broken. He was terrified. And in the end, he loved her enough to warn her.
Kara wrote down the conversation exactly as she remembered it and stored his words where no one might find them. Just as he asked, she kept her eyes open. She made engineering her life. She searched for answers when she did not know the questions.
Until one day, the war did in fact begin.
RYLLEN JEE
We honor the bold and daring, those who look Death in the face and do not blink. We write poems about them. We build monuments and name cities in tribute. On occasion, the revered are seen in a new light by fresh eyes, and those once praised are now pilloried and swept clean from history. Ryllen Jee fits neither of these categories, but I wonder where he would rate if he were remembered at all.
Those who know his name are split in their assessment. Some say his story was a tragedy; others suggest it was the most beautiful ending possible for a complicated man. What little I knew of Ryllen – especially regarding his involvement in the War of Nine – repulsed me. Such callous disregard for life struck me as irredeemable.
However, an historian must be willing to delve beneath the surface features of our past. Since Ryllen’s story began alongside Kara Syung’s, I felt an obligation to expand my interviews while visiting The Lagos. Additional examination of previously classified archival data from the former Unification Guard headquarters on Earth and the data stream reservoir on Aeterna complemented my interviews.
The following stories represent my interpretation of a small portion of Ryllen Jee’s entry into manhood.
- Dr. Orson Baatch, SY 5430
1 Idiot of The Lagos
Standard Year 5362
N othing rivaled Ascension, and no city on Hokkaido celebrated it like Pinchon. Nature’s most spectacular art stopped the city every seven hundred thirty-three standard days. Ascension’s unparalleled beauty filled the untainted night sky for twelve minutes. Out here in the middle of the ocean, more than two thousand kilometers from the continent, the island city enjoyed the event’s maximum impact.
Citizens prepared for months, from the wealthy northern enclaves in the Haansu District, to the fresh air markets of Lihoni Way, to the corporate clusters of the seamasters, to the blue-light districts of Zozo and Umkau. At the Port of Pinchon, ships’ captains arranged communal festivities that temporarily silenced cargo drones and Kohlna meat processors to offload thousands of rival crews who celebrated together on the mile-long isthmus called the Point of the Redeemer.
Some Hokki found religion in this event; a message sent from the Divine, they said, to remind everyone of a greater journey yet unfulfilled. For most, however, Ascension was a product of light, shadow, and chemical reactions. It was the moon, the rings, and the sun joining forces to paint a masterpiece. No more, no less.
Either way, Ascension was a gorgeous diversion from the uncertainty no one wished to discuss. Though it did not pass their lips, it never escaped their eyes. The night sky was uncluttered, free of the miles-long Ark Carriers that once orbited Hokkaido for centuries like small moons. Tonight’s Ascension would be only the second since the Carriers returned to Earth when their empire collapsed, giving Hokkaido independence it soon lamented.
None of these matters of global and cultural importance bothered Ryllen Jee, whose only immediate concern involved dodging traffic in the UpWay without drawing the attention of the FDs. He ran afoul of a Forsythe Drone once before when he was speeding; anal buggers, they were. An FD almost crashed his rifter when it tried to stall him inside a tractor beam.
He wanted to file a formal complaint with Island Transport Discipline, but his mother reminded him why ITD would ignore him.
“I don’t have a violation to my name,” he insisted.
“Your name is all they need,” his mother said. “They’ve not had enough time to forgive. One day, Ryllen, they will no longer hold the House of Jee against you.”
“Huh. How long until one day?”
Muna Lin Jee, a tiny woman who wore only black and blue, looked away, her wandering eyes telegraphing the response Ryllen did not want to hear.
“In time, the current generation of elders who determine doctrine will die off. When the next generation ascends, they will bring new doctrine. They will call upon forgiveness of past sins, and our family will be rehabilitated. This is how it’s always been, Ryllen. I have lived it. So did your father and his ancestors.”
The explanation wasn’t good enough.
“I don’t deserve this,” he said. “I’m not a Jee by blood. Why should I be punished because Father was a collaborator?”
Muna Lin knotted her fingers, the long nails piercing skin, drawing blood. She turned her back to Ryllen.
“You cannot think of one moment where your Father treated you as any less than a son,” she said, her voice haggard. “Did he ever make you feel beneath your sisters or your brother, though you were not their blood?”
“I can think of a thousand times, but you were never there. He was careful, that way.”
“Then I am sorry, Ryllen, but there’s
