Three Sons Read online

  POST-TERRA FIRMA

  THREE SONS

  SAXON KEELEY

  Also by Saxon Keeley

  Some Velvet Morning

  Blue Light

  Post-Terra Firma Series:

  The Family

  For You,

  Whether you loved it, or found it a snore,

  Thank you for giving something else a chance.

  You, simply by having read my story,

  Bring me the greatest happiness.

  And in the years to come,

  When this pile of pebbles becomes a grand cathedral,

  Together we shall laugh at such humble beginnings,

  Telling latecomers that the adaptation is nothing like the book.

  POST-TERRA FIRMA

  THREE SONS

  POST-TERRA FIRMA

  THREE SONS

  Book VI…Occupation of Neo-Shanxi

  Book VII…Liberation of Neo-Shanxi

  Book VIII…White Dragon

  Book IX…Brasil Agreement

  Book X…Three Sons

  THREE SONS

  OCCUPATION OF NEO-SHANXI

  Japan

  XXXXXXXXXX

  It took only two weeks for the Chinese and Koreans to take Tokyo. Japan’s exemplary rail system allowed the foreign forces to traverse the country with ease, cutting off dispossessed civilians as they fled south to the last free cities. They came to cities such as Osaka in droves. Camps were set up to hold the people until the USA army could evacuate them, but the sheer number was unmanageable.

  Millions still wait as the enemy arrived north in Yodogawa-ku. From Shin-Osaka Station the Chinese proceeded through the wards, moving though Kita-ku, massacring all those in the way, eventually being held at Chuo-ku. The Chinese showed no compassion for the human cost of victory.

  XXXXXXXXXX is part of the last American regiments defending the free wards. The most decorated active soldier, he earnt his respect and admiration during the South Asian Conflicts and serving in Africa. Little of that matters now.

  Crackles of gunfire grumble and the dead carpet the streets of Osaka. The taste of death sours the back of his throat. Roads are barricaded with furniture dragged out from nearby homes and businesses. It did little to stop the advance. So many checkpoints, established to lessen the concentration of civilians making their way to the bay, have been compromised or destroyed. There isn’t much time left until the people stuck Chou-ku will be stranded.

  Following close behind him is a mother and her son. Covering ground the Chinese have already been, he hopes to slip passed unnoticed.

  A flare in the near distance screeches as it lights up the streets below. The small child cries as what they are stepping over is revealed. Chinese soldiers shout as they coordinate their search to find the stragglers. Taking the child from his mother’s arms, XXXXXXXXXX picks up the pace.

  In the rush, the mother drops her bag containing old family heirlooms. Priceless pieces of jewellery, dating back hundreds of years, scatter in amongst the muck. On her hands and knees, she searches for them, much to the American’s aggravation. The Chinese cannot be far away now.

  Trying to hurry her along with his limited Japanese, she purposely ignores him. Not willing to give his life for a women’s materialistic sentiment, he strikes her with the back of his glove. The metal knuckles catch her skin. But the slap fails to knock any sense onto her. Placing down her son, he attempts to pull the woman back to her feet.

  Another screech lights up the sky. This time the flare was only a street away. But no soldiers seem to come running around the corner. In fact, the voices seem to be heading farther away. What seems to be a miraculous bit of luck, XXXXXXXXXX knows too well there is no such thing on the battlefield.

  A distinct whistle comes falling to the earth.

  The shell lands near on top of them, destroying half the street. XXXXXXXXXX dives for safety, pushing the young boy out of the way of the impact.

  As rubble rains down, the soldier holds his arms over his head. Debris bounces off his back, like being pelted with golf balls.

  Left disorientated and slightly deafened in his right ear, he picks himself up, knowing the Chinese will shortly send a squad to execute any still clinging onto life. The ground beneath him sways as he regains his balance. A wet trickle runs down the side of his face and his ear begins ringing.

  There is little left of the mother. Her precious jewels blown into dust. He finds the young child and scoops him up in his arms, determined that none of this would have been for nothing.

  Escaping down the road, it isn’t long until XXXXXXXXXX realises the dead weight he is carrying. The boy’s face is bloodied and unrecognisable. No more than a heap of flesh preciously held together, one of the child’s eyes protrudes from the socket. Letting the boy slip from his arms, a sickening feeling clogs his throat.

  Fight it, XXXXXXXXXX thinks to himself. Swallow it down and move on, there is no time to think, act on instinct, he tells himself.

  Reaching round for his assault rifle, he finds a firm grip and makes his way back up the street, passed the crater and towards the enemy. Towards Osaka Castle.

  The battle for the castle is fierce. Chinese and Korean forces surround the castle walls, while Japanese and American soldiers only just manage to hold them off. Sticking to the shadows, XXXXXXXXXX moves in closer. The ringing in his ear muffles the gunfire.

  As he works out a plan to slip passed the enemy and onto the other side of the wall, the ground begins to shake. A Japanese quadrupedal tank comes thudding up behind him. The rotary cannons cut through the measly blockade the Chinese troops try to form, reducing them to fleshy puddles. American soldiers roar into battle as they jump from the tank, heading straight for the bridge. XXXXXXXXXX decides this is better than any plan he may have hastily devised and joins their numbers.

  The Captain pulls the new comer to one side and is about to give XXXXXXXXXX an earful, until he spots the insignia on his uniform. Embarrassedly the Captain lets XXXXXXXXXX go, brushes him down before saluting him. Had the Captain realised sooner, he would have never of acted so disrespectfully.

  “Sir! We have reports that civilians are held up in Osaka Castle. Our objective is to punch a hole through the enemy line so that we may evacuate the vicinity,” the Captain offered an update on the situation while they catch up with his team.

  “Understood. You’re in charge here, so if there is any way I can help, don’t hesitate,” XXXXXXXXXX instructed.

  “Sir!”

  They take position behind the tank with the rest of the squad. Bullets hail from either side and metallic clanking rings as the tank’s legs protect them. Edging ever closer to the stronghold’s gates, the left flank is secured by the tank, the right by the Captain and his troops, while XXXXXXXXXX snipes down any Chinese soldier circling around.

  The gates swing open and the trapped Japanese soldier’s welcome the sudden arrival of backup by laying down suppressive fire. Holding their positions while the others break for the castle grounds is their Captain and XXXXXXXXXX. Finding relief from the right flank, the Chinese soldier’s use the opportunity to retaliate and launch a missile.

  Leaving the tank stranded in the middle of the bridge, XXXXXXXXXX carries the Captain clear of the blast. It is a narrow escape.

  The damaged bridge begins to give in to the weight of the quadrupedal tank. Each step it takes, more of the bridge falls into the moat below. Holding back the enemy’s advance, the tank buys them enough time to secure the gates shut.

  “Let’s head to the castle,” the Captain ordered, pointing in the direction of an old structure not fit as a modern military defence.

  They march up the path to Osaka Castle. For hundreds of years it has withstood the trials of history, it seems a fitting end that
the city’s last stand should take place here. The northern wards are ablaze and flares light up the sky like fireworks. It is a sombre sight to behold.

  Inside the castle, hundreds of families huddle together. Most are not from Osaka, but fled from the north with nothing more than the clothes on their back. Most are sick and hungry. They wait patiently for the instruction to move down to the bay.

  “Fuck, there is a lot of people here,” the Captain muttered under his breath. “The plan was to escort them down to Minato-ku.”

  “You know as well as I do that isn’t happening,” said XXXXXXXXXX. “The Koreans are already across the Konohana-ku boarder. By the time we punch through the Chinese waiting for us outside and clear a path out of Chuo-ku, there will be no evacuation points.”

  “They were our orders,” the Captain expressed despairingly.

  “Orders that will see us all killed,” XXXXXXXXXX argued.

  From his belt pouch, he pulls out a creased paper map of the city. Quickly glancing over it, he thinks up an alternative evacuation plan.

  “If we secure the south-east exit, from there we can head to Morinomiya Station. Using the shelter of the underground, we can take the civilians safely down the rail line to Abeno-ku. From there it should be easy enough to find an evacuation point.”

  “Sir,” the Captain agreed. “I’ll begin rounding up the civilians. I will have us ready to leave in less than ten minutes.”

  As the Captain readies the civilians, XXXXXXXXXX leaves to secure the south-eastern exit. Making his way down the steps from the castle, he is stopped by a nauseating mechanical shriek calling out from the battlefield. The terrible sound has all those who heard it bent double, shielding their ears. XXXXXXXXXX right ear throbs, as if it were about to burst.

  A Chinese bipedal tank knocks though the stronghold’s walls to the north, as if it were made of children’s building blocks. The front guns mow down the soldier’s defending their station.

  Stamping its feet into the ground, the tank braces itself to attack. The missile racks are primed for launch. One at a time they hiss high into the sky. After it is all over, there is not much left of Osaka Castle. The great and old structure brought to its foundations.

  Enemy soldiers come flooding though the breach in the wall. The carnage that ensues is unstoppable. Falling back to the south-east, Japanese and American soldiers desperately try to organise the stronghold’s surviving civilians. They panic, pushing towards the sealed gate, crushing those up against it.

  “Get up,” XXXXXXXXXX ordered as he holds out his hand to a fallen student in danger of being trampled to death.

  Hysterically the student flails about, putting them both at risk. Overcome by anger, to see young children more composed and orderly than this young man, XXXXXXXXXX grabs him by his shirt collar and yanks him to safety. XXXXXXXXXX has no time to see if the student is alright and leaves him choking.

  Although the path ahead is not entirely clear of Chinese soldiers, the Japanese commanders believe they have better odds against what is waiting on the other side of the gates than what approaches them from the north. The soldiers open the south-eastern gates and begin herding the civilians towards Morinomiya Station. Those who aren’t shoved to the ground, are caught by Chinese bullets.

  XXXXXXXXXX screams for them to close the gates, but at the back of the crowd, no one can hear him. Soldiers abandon their posts so they too can make their escape, leaving only the truly noble to defend the rear.

  Over the radio, more reckless decisions are made as the Americans call in a drone strike at their coordinates. Desperately trying to overturn the order, XXXXXXXXXX pleads are not even acknowledged. It is then he realises that Osaka has fallen. Japan is lost.

  Bullets whizz passed his head, reminding him of the impending danger. Entrenching himself behind cover, XXXXXXXXXX returns fire, doing all he can for those waiting to leave the stronghold’s grounds. Just as he organises the remaining soldiers into defensive positions, his commands are cut short.

  XXXXXXXXXX feels a cold shiver run down his spine. His rifle drops to the ground. His body drops too. The exchange of gunfire fades into the backdrop. Denied the mercy of a quick death, he watches as the bipedal tank trudges forward. The machine’s wail is followed by the distant screams of men, women and children.

  Wavering in and out of consciousness XXXXXXXXXX is dragged from the castle grounds, through the streets of Osaka, through the underground, then to the bay. In a small boat drifting out towards the ships, he gazes upon a city engulfed in flames. Everything then fades to black.

  Maia

  Wesley Jung

  There is a strange normality to life on Maia. One year ago, Wesley could have never of thought there would be peace between the colonists, but here they are. Chinese and Westerners living and working side by side. The violence committed during the revolt forgiven.

  The prosperity of the colony has been largely thanks to his brothers. Alistair has worked extensively to repair the colonists’ relationship, as well as reorganising the city to improve their standard of living. In the east a new district, known as The Capital, has been erected. There is a new educational institution, The Academy, taking its first cohort and offers board to those who lost their parents in the revolt. What the locals call the Crystal Castle, because of its use of glass within its design, is the bureaucratic centre of Maia. A perfect temporary home for Alistair.

  Oscar on the other hand set to work on modifying the TFP, mediating the sudden dip when Maia orbits Thule. Essential facilities were improved such as water filtering plants, factories in the Foundry were made environmentally viable, and every household was updated to meet a consistent standard.

  Despite all their achievements on Maia, they have yet been able to save their family from occupied Neo-Shanxi.

  High up overlooking the city, Wesley sits on the edge of the canal, his feet dangling over the drop. In his lap is the tattered diary of an old soldier. For the past year, he as read and reread the entries, searching for answers to questions he cannot quite articulate. What he has found contradicts all the stories his grandfather once told him about China. So much of what he had presumed about his heritage is contradicted in these pages. He can feel the anger than once drove him dissipating.

  Two girls on their way to class catch a glimpse of the handsome half of the young soldier sitting by the canal. They tease one another and one dares the other to go and speak with him. Their schoolgirl laughter distracts Wesley from his quiet contemplations. As he turns to greet the approaching girl, the other half of his face is revealed. The leathery smile scorched onto the right side of his face startles her. She runs back to her friend, interlocking their arms and they ashamedly scurry off towards The Academy.

  Letting out a sigh, Wesley considers whether refusing the reconstructive surgery was the right choice.

  “Do not let them get to you,” said a kind voice, clear that Chinese is not her first language.

  A beautiful older woman takes a seat next to Wesley. Though she is Asian, she comes from a different culture. Her dress is not like the kind women wear on Shanxi.

  “It is spirit that shines above all else in these times.”

  “Spirit…?” Wesley repeated unconvinced.

  “Spirit is what brought Maia out from the ashes. It will be spirit that wins back your home,” she said with a reassuring smile.

  “You are here…to see…my brother?” he asked.

  “I am the Mẫu Thoải,” she introduced herself, “I am here on the behalf of my father, Nguyễn Hữu Quốc, Chairman of the Thuỷ Phủ Assembly.”

  “The old…Vietnamese guy,” he said, remembering the boxing match back on Shanxi before the revolution. “Is he…not coming himself?”

  “No,” she explained regretfully. “My father has recently taken ill. Currently my sisters and daughters are tending to him while I oversee matters of state in his stead.”

  “I am…sorry,” he offered his condolences, embarrassed by his previous
comment. “It is hard…keeping up with all these…appointments and…meetings, is it not?”

  Her long dark brown hair flutters in the wind. Her pale blue áo dài is the perfect contrast for her skin. She looks as radiant as the sun. Even in these trying times, Mẫu Thoải looks so well held together. An unassuming dignity Wesley always saw in his mother.

  Climbing to his feet, he offers her help up.

  “I am…Wesley Jung.”

  “As if you needed any introduction,” she said, accepting his hand. “We should not keep your brother waiting any longer. I imagine he is the type to grow impatient quickly.”

  “You do not…know the half…of it,” he joked, leading the way towards the glimmering structure known as the Crystal Castle.

  Throughout the glass corridors of Maia’s new political hub, ministers sit at long conference tables and in small committees, discussing matters that would not interest Wesley in the slightest. A transparency which is a far cry from the scheming of the Neo-Shanxi Assembly. Only a few rooms have the glass blacked-out for highly sensitive and confidential meetings. Such as the room Oscar is waiting outside.

  “It is great to finally meet you Mẫu Thoải,” his brother said, shooting a look at Wesley and his tardiness.

  “And you must be Oscar Jung. The pleasure is all mine.”

  Inside the private conference room, several generals and chief ministers from Maia and Shanxi sit around an augmented reality map of Neo-Shanxi. The Trading and Industrial Districts are disputed zones, falling back and forth between the resistance and the CERE. The Political District is completely dark. Since the beginning of the occupation, the district has been under lockdown, no one being able to successfully gather information on CERE activity or the citizens trapped inside. The same situation Wesley and the generals had seen during the revolt. Wesley is the only one around the table that knows what really lies in wait for them there.