2. Where allegiances lie
A/N: I thought of continuing off from the last chapter, and trying to emphasize more on the family and some of the stuff that goes on inside Iris's head. You'd also probably guess by now that I'm Chinese, but that's only partially true, if you read my bio. The focus of the story being a Chinese family irked me a bit at first, but then I realised it's the culture and way of life I know most about and write the least of, so it could make an interesting sub-theme for a Titan A.E story. Truthfully, I think it gives the story a more personal feel too. In the later chapters I'll try to develop the culture in the writing, just as the characters develop too.
This chapter is for Tigrin and the kind words she had to offer in her short review of the 'Junkie'.
The night is still young and I join my family as we celebrate this season, a season of plenty, a season where we can drink and eat our fill without any worry about tomorrow. All around, in every house and every family along this street, we eat and be merry; it is the season of joy anyway, though only we really know how to observe it.
Mother stirs the stew and we tuck into the sumptuous food. She divides the stew into three bowls; I share one with Michelle, while Mother and Aunt Cheng share another. Father separates the thick flavoured stock from his, skimming the surface of the dish and passes it to Liwei, who enjoys it better than the rest of us.
The feast of jhowel meat is spiced; as I chew into the slippery tendons, the undiluted pepper, in small black seeds, stings my tongue. Dripping curry and soup, the meat is heavenly, with the rosemary burning in my nose as I hold it up to eat. Such is the seasoning, our food has shed the stink of meat and donned herbs instead. Michelle face is bright. I know her smile, she knows I enjoy the food and the spices she has took so long to cultivate.
Once the main course is finished, Aunt Cheng hands out the bread. As with all the dough we get from Ershed, it is leavened and soft to the touch. Without any butter like we had back on Earth, we use berry paste instead. It sticks to the roof of our mouths like adhesive, irritating but sweet. The bread itself almost dissolves in our mouths once we bite it. I pick up a wildflower bud, tied, from the drained bowl of soup. To everyone's amusement, I immerse it into the paste and swallow it whole. My throat will be sticky with sugar all night.
Then comes the presents. Only Aunt Cheng and Mother have got something for me this year, though Michelle has got another from Liwei. They swap presents after they've opened theirs; I don't blame them for not counting me in, I prefer my own stuff anyway. Mother has got me something to wear as usual. Last year it was a shawl, but I've only worn it once, on the first week of the New Year since it's white and doesn't go very well with my jet black hair. This year it is a windbreaker, made from white plastic with a hood and deep pockets by its sides. I give my Mother a hug and she smiles at me, for the first time today, in a rare happy way.
But there are more surprises to come. Aunt Cheng's gift is wrapped tightly between folds of rough leather, and stringed up at the sides. With her consent, I pull the strings apart; the leather unfurls, eagerly I search within it folds for the gift that has got he grinning. And I find it: a memory clip, so small that it rests on my palm, glistening in the light delicately.
I cannot control the happiness. A memory device! Now I don't need to write down notes during lessons, I can store them in here with a mainframe, or with any other kind of notebook. Then I think again. I will be able to record all my music.
The happiness built inside of me bursts and I rush to hug Aunt Cheng. "Thank you! Thank you!" is all I can blurt. My aunt is still grinning, even with my arms dangling around her neck. "This is the best christmas present I've got – ever," I say.
Mother frowns, but we are all too lost in celebration to think of anything else but being joyful and merry. I present my gifts to my family: a necklace of glass beads for Mother and afresh pen for Father, though I feel a pang of guilt that I now have a memory device and he still is painstakingly writing his journals by hand. For Aunt Cheng I have nothing to offer but perfume; Alvin the herbalist sells these and I bought a lavender-scented fragrance for my aunt. She smiles warmly.
"Hey, what about me?" Michelle demands, pretending to look sour and haughty.
"You?" I beam, "Why would I forget you, sister?"
From beneath my slacks, I whip out a peach, a full peach, so ripe that it is bursting with red, and hand it to her proudly. I will not reveal my source, even though I know I could've gotten more. Michelle tears the fruit, and with her fingers peels of a portion for herself. Knowing her, she passes the remaining around the table.
Now it is time. Everyone calls to me, "Sing, Iris! Let's hear your voice!" My guitar upstairs, I cannot play at the moment, but I sing, and soon everyone joins in song. Some say I have the voice of an angel but I think it is the wine that's making them so merry and cheerful. We sing both happy and sad songs; some pain my heart while others are bright and upbeat. All around the houses the street will be alive with the echo of song. It is tradition we sing on this joyful day. Sing until the morning where we sing to the dawn. Sing, indeed, for a new dawn that will bring hope and promise to all of us.
Neighbours come to give us their well wishes and gifts. Rusty and Spike arrive with their father Isaac Mezun and we offer them a snack as guests. But they decline; they are late, they say, for it is almost midnight and there are more people to visit, more neighbours to catch up with. Our duty as guests doesn't end with the arrival of others: Ershed and his daughter from New Marrakech, Tamar; Alvin, with his usual sour mood; and Jeffery, who greets Father with a hug without fail.
Like it has been the years before, all the well-wishing soon descends into the usual talk.
"Did you hear the news? About the Drej?"
"They have reappeared again. Everyone, from the town magistrates right up to the Solbrecht chancellor, is afraid. Some have issued a statement to all cargo ships to cease trading ventures with the Black Fields System."
"Preposterous! If that's the mentality of everyone in Solbrecht, the planet might lose millions in exports."
"Did you hear? There are rumours the Drej shot down that ship because there were humans on board."
Immediately, the atmosphere becomes tense. The news of the Drej is not as worrying to us as it is to the hundreds of other races out there, but the fact still remains: the Drej are after humans. They destroyed our beloved planet and they are still out to destroy us all.
"Some aliens submitted a proposal to the Zechaat law enforcement bureau, hoping to shut down several human-owned businesses here on Solbrecht."
"Submitted by the their business rivals, of course."
"I heard that some of these businesses want the Zechaat residents to boycott human enterprises."
"Stupid. Do you know how much these human businesses contribute to the planet's economy?"
"Hopefully this will all blow over. Anyway, we have nothing to worry about. The City Council in Zechaat passed a law that all humans be protected and left untouched. By the Solbrecht chancellor himself!"
"But what about here, in Zyjushem?"
"The magistrate will protect us, as he always does," Alvin says, his feeble voice now strong and confident, "may he live long in comfort and security!"
At the mention of our city magistrate mayor, I feel anger ripple through me. A weight has suddenly been set on my heart; the festive mood is dampened by his name.
Tamar glares at me, seeing my dissent. "Ah, yes, how is our dear old magistrate?" she asks.
"They say he has purchased a new ship, all sleek and streamlined, its thrusters state-of-the-art. It is a modified phoenix craft all the way from D'Amara. It is so modern and fast that it can outstrip any vessel in hyperdrive."
"The magistrate's quarters are serviced by two dozen slaves, I heard," Tamar remarks.
I add, "His fingers are laced with rings."
Father frowns; at last he has gotten the message I have been trying to send across to him. I am not particularly fond of our magistrate. It is true that he welds much more authority over our neighbourhood landlords and mayors who are always calling for the lease payments, but he is still a friend of scum such as Tairpar. Most people support him because he keeps crime rates low; the humans support him because he protects us and allows us to trade. But Father always contemplates the possibility that he might raise the human tax.
The magistrate somehow succeeded in persuading Golbus' and his crime ring to stop going through every city in Solbrecht, burning human property and homes. He has agreed not to harass us for fifteen years. In turn, we pay a tax to the mayor: each year, the humans must come up with ten thousand debits to repay the magistrate's gratitude. He calls this the human tax. Sometimes I feel that he and Golbus are merely in a ploy to make money out from us, but why can't everyone else see it?
But knowing how well humans can make business, we somehow manage to come up with the sum by year's end.
Alvin, acting in the spur of the moment, raises his glass. "I propose a toast!" he declares, his face red from the rich wine. "To the continued prosperity of our Solbrecht community and good governance."
To refuse an elder's request is to be disrespectful. I raise my glass, still untouched, into the air like everyone else, and we intone the words. The festive mood, I feel, has subsided a bit since our discussion. As much as we try to enjoy the present, there are still the demands of tomorrow to be met.
Jeffery himself, giddy on wine, rambles on after the conversation: "A toast! A toast indeed! To the… success of our… our businesses! And to humanity!"
The men grunt in agreement.
"There is nothing else… more valuable…than who we are…" he blathers, "nothing else… than heritage and being human! Nothing…but the loyalty to what…what… we …believe in! To the future of the human race… and a future Earth!"
By now the guests are silent. There is a sense of melancholy, but overriding that a sudden atmosphere of uneasiness. Father has a black look on his face and his eyes are downcast so I cannot read them. Everyone else has put on a sombre expression; by the look on Mother's face, it's probably better that Jeffery had kept his mouth such than mention such taboo in a gathering.
Earth, I question, why is it a word restricted, forbidden? The elders rarely mention it, except during nostalgic holidays. Only Mr. Niel speaks of it openly – during history class, of course, and still people find it inappropriate. Mr. Niel thinks having a place where we can settle has made us lose hope, lose our faith in a small number of brave men and women who have safeguarded the secret of a new Earth for more than a decade now.
I know Mother never speaks about it. As far as she is concerned Solbrecht, Zyjushem, is our home. And I have known no other. But is it too much to wish for a home of our own? Mr. Niel thinks the children will grow up without longing for a true home because they have never experienced Earth. He is wrong.
The more we hear about a planet where we could live without being taxed, without being bullied, we inherit the remnants of that hope our parents forgot or abandoned. Yes, wouldn't it be nice to have a planet – where we could live and pass on to our children? Wouldn't it be nice to have a planet where we weren't taxed because we are human?
No one is speaking now, and Jeffery does not having even the remotest idea of his error in his drunken stupour.
"Enough said," Father says finally, breaking the horrid silence, "this … this is a time to look towards the future, not bring up the past."
"But this is talking about the future," I speak up. I don't know what possessed me to, though, but now all eyes are on me. "Jeffery is right. Why shouldn't be wishing forward to a new Earth? It will probably not happen in our generation, but this is our very commitment we have to!"
"We already have a home, Iris," Father replies, trying to sound patient. "And it is Solbrecht."
"Our home was Earth!" I protest. "It always will be!"
Father's eyes are bulging with rage; if there weren't guests he would've chided at me from across the table and brought his hand down on me. I don't care; let him beat me a hundred times!
"You… you…"
I need no prompting. I excuse myself and run upstairs, my eyes half-filled with tears at my Father's hardness. As I enter my room, I slam the door behind me and sit beside the open window. My tears are wet, and I feel sorrow, like a hole in my heart, eating it slowly. But I am the oldest child, as Mother says, and I try to hide the tears.
A breeze is wafting through the street, bringing cold wind to my tears. In every house in the street, the front porches are alight, the families gathered around the tables, with songs echoing in the night. Everyone else in every house will be happy – except me.
I hear a knock on my door, and Mother gently opens it.
"Iris, don't open the window. You'll catch a cold in such weather," she coaxes. "Why don't you come back down to the table and wish our guests goodnight?"
My throat is dry but real enough to conceal my sobs. "It was a mistake, I never meant to be disrespectful," I say, my face turned. "Why is Father so cold?"
"When Earth was destroyed, we all lost a lot. Not only our families, but our security and very history. Your father has, well, lost much more than you can imagine, and sometimes he forgets that other people have no Earth either. So he tries to forget. That is his only way of dealing with it."
I love my mother; she understands me sometimes more than I understand myself, but still I want to be alone.
"No thanks," I tell her. "I need some time by myself… but tell Tamar I wish her a Merry Christmas."
She nods, and once again I am alone. The room, despite the dimness, is now my only source of comfort. I unearth the memory device out of my pocket and place it on my side of the bedside table, and sit on my bed, unable to gather my thoughts.
One of my guitars is slouched against the wall. It beckons to me, and I yield to its temptation. As I cradle in my arms, I can feel the strings beneath my finger, their touch, metallic but full of warmth. Before I know it I am playing something, strumming idly to a tune, my two hands and their fingers taking their positions without me guiding them.
How nice it feels to be fighting for a cause! Yes, I know I was disrespectful in my defence of Jeffery's drunken brawling. No well brought-up girl would are deny question her Father. But the feeling, of having something you so strongly believe in, is pleasurable. I don't know what this feeling is… persistence, maybe, or hope…
And I play for my hope, that it may never grow thin. I feel too miserable to sing. All I can do is play, a song without words, to express the realization of holding on to a hope so blind that even I cannot see its presence.
Written by shelter