Lest the World Perish: A Timeline of the Near-Apocalypse
- Thread starter gutza1
- Start date
- Timeline Modern Future
A Change in Strategy
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
To everyone who's followed this story, I apologize for the radio silence. I've been spending the last few months focusing on school, TNO, and another community while fixing up my health. That being said, I feel like you deserve an update for your patience.
After much thought, I have decided that I will no longer be serializing Lest the World Perish on the SV forums, but instead will be writing it in private in the manner of a traditional novel. I have multiple reasons for this:
The ultimate goal of this project is to produce a work that can be published by a dedicated speculative fiction publisher such as Sea Lion Press, representing my authorial debut. Considering its scope, I believe I will have to divide it into at least two books, with the first book covering Acts I and II of the original LTWP outline.
Thank you all for joining me on this journey. Its completion may still seem distant, but I promise I will see it through to the end.
After much thought, I have decided that I will no longer be serializing Lest the World Perish on the SV forums, but instead will be writing it in private in the manner of a traditional novel. I have multiple reasons for this:
- After both self-reflection and feedback from some private beta readers, I have become increasingly dissatisfied with the current narrative as it stands. I feel as if I rushed into the story with only a half-baked idea of its characters and would like to go back and revise the narrative to be more coherent. I also would like the ability to go back and revise previous chapters without significantly disrupting the flow of the story.
- The expectation of at least somewhat consistent updates put significant stress on me, and its removal will ease my conscience as well as freeing my time up for other projects such as running a quest on Sufficient Velocity.
- The threadmark structure of Sufficient Velocity forced me to write LtWP in a certain format that I may not want to preserve for the final product, and writing it like a more traditional novel will save me the effort in the future.
- I realized that I still did not do nearly enough research on certain topics such as the Arab left, and I would like to take the time to read actual scholarly works instead of just articles in periodicals.
The ultimate goal of this project is to produce a work that can be published by a dedicated speculative fiction publisher such as Sea Lion Press, representing my authorial debut. Considering its scope, I believe I will have to divide it into at least two books, with the first book covering Acts I and II of the original LTWP outline.
Thank you all for joining me on this journey. Its completion may still seem distant, but I promise I will see it through to the end.
- Pronouns
- He
Hey man, I believe I can make those maps, flags, and logos
- Location
- France
- Pronouns
- She/They
Be very wary of western scholarship on the subject. It's a mess, sadly.
And good luck with the rewrite, that sounds like a lot of work!
Last edited:
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
Don't worry, I've managed to track down some sources I think are trustworthy, courtesy of a certain Youtuber. Thanks for your support!
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
Hey man, I believe I can make those maps, flags, and logos
Thanks for the offer, will check in later for both this and that SV quest.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Good luck with the rewrite! I've been lurking ever since the beginning and I've loved the story so far. If you ever need anyone else to proofread or whatnot I'm down. Are you looking at self publishing as a physical novel or an ebook? Either way I'd definitely preorder it
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
Good luck with the rewrite! I've been lurking ever since the beginning and I've loved the story so far. If you ever need anyone else to proofread or whatnot I'm down. Are you looking at self publishing as a physical novel or an ebook? Either way I'd definitely preorder it
Thanks for the support! I'm thinking of publishing it through Sea Lion Press, an outfit specifically for publishing alt-history and future history works from places like AH.com. It'll probably be an e-book.
- Pronouns
- He
You still working on it privately, si? No ETA on release yet?
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
Yes. I'm currently on vacation in Italy but will resume work next week. I met up with a colleague from TNO in Florence who's involved in labor organizing. Apparently the city is currently the main flashpoint of labor agitation in Italy due to a scandal over the threatened closure of a large (and financially solvent) factory. We had an interesting chat.
Teaser: The Red Shadow
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
November 2022
Langley, Virginia
Officer James Dorsey of the Central Intelligence Agency's China unit ran his weathered hand through his sandy hair, frustrated at the lack of progress his team had been making. When the shocking results of the Communist Party of China's 20th Congress had emerged, higher-ups at the Agency had immediately ordered a full background investigation done into China's new apparent "paramount leader," desperate to understand just who this "dark horse" candidate was. A man who would be willing to turn over a new leaf? Or yet another dangerous and committed adversary?
The task should have been a simple one. Most General-Secretaries had already been in the public limelight before their election, coming from various high-profile positions - usually the governorship of a major province. They were, in a sense, political celebrities whose accomplishments in regional governance had qualified them for ruling the country. The former Director Lin Zhiming was none of those. It had been three weeks since election, and the Agency had barely been able to uncover any information on who the new General-Secretary was, as both a leader and a private individual. The man was like a ghost. He had no spouse, no children, and no siblings. For his parents, all the team had were two names - with little indication of their occupations or background.
Officer Dorsey stared at the others present in this meeting room, then ran his eyes over the mess the team had made of it. Pegboards filled with pinned bits of evidence strung together, straight out of a clichéd mystery movie. A table cluttered with documents, many of them having proven entirely useless. It was an ordeal just to find a place he could set his coffee mug down without damaging potential evidence.
"Alright, since I'm pretty sure that if I keep staring at these goddamn papers for one more second I'm gonna lose my mind, how about we review what we do know about the General-Secretary one more time?" began Dorsey. The rest of the team just barely held back a collective groan. He pushed it aside and selected the first presenter.
"Analyst Morrison?"
The analyst, a bespeckled twenty-something man barely out of college with the build of a beanpole, sighed before recounting a summary of the team's investigation.
"As far as we know, Lin Zhiming came from a working-class family on the outskirts of Beijing. His parents were, to be frank, complete nobodies, but he joined the Communist Youth League as a teenager, though he doesn't seem to have distinguished himself there."
"And how do we know this?" asked Officer Dorsey.
"His application to Stanford University for a masters in economics included his time of service. He acquired a bachelor's degree in that field from Tsinghua University. Excellent grades, I would say. He graduated in 1991."
When Dorsey had uncovered this date, his mind had immediately settled on the overlap between General Secretary Lin's undergraduate studies and certain events that had occurred in Beijing in that time period. Unfortunately, the Agency's records contained no mention of him in regards to the student movement of 1989. Still, he wondered what role the future paramount leader had played in the events. Had he been one of the protestors, or a supporter of the government?
"Right. How long did he stay in the United States?" continued Dorsey.
"Around seven years. After his masters, he entered a doctoral program at Stanford, eventually emerging with a PhD. in history, of all things," replied Morrison.
"Remind us again of his thesis," demanded Dorsey.
"It was a collaboration with an expert on the ancient Hittites. Lin was attempting to use his previous education to construct a model of the Hittite Empire's economy to understand... to understand why it collapsed near the end of the Bronze Age, sir."
Civilizational collapse. Truly, their target was a cheery fellow. The meeting was briefly interrupted when the latest-assigned member of the team, Analyst Hendricks, slipped into the room. They needed that fresh pair of eyes.
"Alright then. What happened to him after he returned to China?" asked Dorsey.
"That's where the trail becomes murky. We believe he returned to China in 1998 and joined the Communist Party. He secured a position in China's State Development Bank, that we know. He seems to have frequently traveled across the country in support of the state's various projects. We know this from a few photos that include him, the latest from this period having been taken at the 2010 Shanghai Expo."
All present stared at the photo in question, unceremoniously plopped in the center of the table. On a whim, Analyst Hendricks walked over to it and picked it up, staring at it intently. The meeting continued apace.
"So, what ultimately ended up happening to our unassuming banker?" asked Dorsey.
"Records indicate that in 2012, he was "promoted" to a Director position in the Ministry of Finance. In truth, a punishment for what we suspect to be his support for disgraced Chongqing governor Bo Xilai's bid for the position of General-Secretary. If you want my opinion, he got off lucky. Many of his "compatriots" lost their jobs entirely."
"And there he remains, without a trace, until he suddenly capitalizes on last summer's domestic unrest to secure the position of General-Secretary, with much of the Communist Youth League at his back, no less."
Officer Dorsey's expression twisted into a scowl.
"Now, despite all of these painstaking work spent uncovering these snippets of information on his education, his life story, or the political games he was involved in, we still haven't come anywhere close to answering this one fucking question: Who is Lin Zhiming?!"
Dorsey slammed his fist on the table for dramatic effect, disturbing a few of the papers beneath it. The entire room went silent for an entire minute, the exhausted expressions on the faces of those present casting a pallor. All except for one - Analyst Hendricks. He had been examining the figures in the 2010 Shanghai Expo photo this whole time and a strange expression of deja vu had developed on his face. Suddenly, it turned to recognition.
"Holy shit..." he muttered, pointing to a figure in the photo. A dark-haired Caucasian man with long, sharp features who looked about fifty years of age. His appearance vaguely reminded Dorsey of H.P Lovecraft. Lin was standing approximately three places to the right of him.
"It's Nick Land!"
Author's note: If I haven't made it obvious already, General-Secretary Lin is not a neoreactionary. Quite the opposite in fact. Still, this is an interesting connection to be made. I wonder if it will be important later?
Langley, Virginia
Officer James Dorsey of the Central Intelligence Agency's China unit ran his weathered hand through his sandy hair, frustrated at the lack of progress his team had been making. When the shocking results of the Communist Party of China's 20th Congress had emerged, higher-ups at the Agency had immediately ordered a full background investigation done into China's new apparent "paramount leader," desperate to understand just who this "dark horse" candidate was. A man who would be willing to turn over a new leaf? Or yet another dangerous and committed adversary?
The task should have been a simple one. Most General-Secretaries had already been in the public limelight before their election, coming from various high-profile positions - usually the governorship of a major province. They were, in a sense, political celebrities whose accomplishments in regional governance had qualified them for ruling the country. The former Director Lin Zhiming was none of those. It had been three weeks since election, and the Agency had barely been able to uncover any information on who the new General-Secretary was, as both a leader and a private individual. The man was like a ghost. He had no spouse, no children, and no siblings. For his parents, all the team had were two names - with little indication of their occupations or background.
Officer Dorsey stared at the others present in this meeting room, then ran his eyes over the mess the team had made of it. Pegboards filled with pinned bits of evidence strung together, straight out of a clichéd mystery movie. A table cluttered with documents, many of them having proven entirely useless. It was an ordeal just to find a place he could set his coffee mug down without damaging potential evidence.
"Alright, since I'm pretty sure that if I keep staring at these goddamn papers for one more second I'm gonna lose my mind, how about we review what we do know about the General-Secretary one more time?" began Dorsey. The rest of the team just barely held back a collective groan. He pushed it aside and selected the first presenter.
"Analyst Morrison?"
The analyst, a bespeckled twenty-something man barely out of college with the build of a beanpole, sighed before recounting a summary of the team's investigation.
"As far as we know, Lin Zhiming came from a working-class family on the outskirts of Beijing. His parents were, to be frank, complete nobodies, but he joined the Communist Youth League as a teenager, though he doesn't seem to have distinguished himself there."
"And how do we know this?" asked Officer Dorsey.
"His application to Stanford University for a masters in economics included his time of service. He acquired a bachelor's degree in that field from Tsinghua University. Excellent grades, I would say. He graduated in 1991."
When Dorsey had uncovered this date, his mind had immediately settled on the overlap between General Secretary Lin's undergraduate studies and certain events that had occurred in Beijing in that time period. Unfortunately, the Agency's records contained no mention of him in regards to the student movement of 1989. Still, he wondered what role the future paramount leader had played in the events. Had he been one of the protestors, or a supporter of the government?
"Right. How long did he stay in the United States?" continued Dorsey.
"Around seven years. After his masters, he entered a doctoral program at Stanford, eventually emerging with a PhD. in history, of all things," replied Morrison.
"Remind us again of his thesis," demanded Dorsey.
"It was a collaboration with an expert on the ancient Hittites. Lin was attempting to use his previous education to construct a model of the Hittite Empire's economy to understand... to understand why it collapsed near the end of the Bronze Age, sir."
Civilizational collapse. Truly, their target was a cheery fellow. The meeting was briefly interrupted when the latest-assigned member of the team, Analyst Hendricks, slipped into the room. They needed that fresh pair of eyes.
"Alright then. What happened to him after he returned to China?" asked Dorsey.
"That's where the trail becomes murky. We believe he returned to China in 1998 and joined the Communist Party. He secured a position in China's State Development Bank, that we know. He seems to have frequently traveled across the country in support of the state's various projects. We know this from a few photos that include him, the latest from this period having been taken at the 2010 Shanghai Expo."
All present stared at the photo in question, unceremoniously plopped in the center of the table. On a whim, Analyst Hendricks walked over to it and picked it up, staring at it intently. The meeting continued apace.
"So, what ultimately ended up happening to our unassuming banker?" asked Dorsey.
"Records indicate that in 2012, he was "promoted" to a Director position in the Ministry of Finance. In truth, a punishment for what we suspect to be his support for disgraced Chongqing governor Bo Xilai's bid for the position of General-Secretary. If you want my opinion, he got off lucky. Many of his "compatriots" lost their jobs entirely."
"And there he remains, without a trace, until he suddenly capitalizes on last summer's domestic unrest to secure the position of General-Secretary, with much of the Communist Youth League at his back, no less."
Officer Dorsey's expression twisted into a scowl.
"Now, despite all of these painstaking work spent uncovering these snippets of information on his education, his life story, or the political games he was involved in, we still haven't come anywhere close to answering this one fucking question: Who is Lin Zhiming?!"
Dorsey slammed his fist on the table for dramatic effect, disturbing a few of the papers beneath it. The entire room went silent for an entire minute, the exhausted expressions on the faces of those present casting a pallor. All except for one - Analyst Hendricks. He had been examining the figures in the 2010 Shanghai Expo photo this whole time and a strange expression of deja vu had developed on his face. Suddenly, it turned to recognition.
"Holy shit..." he muttered, pointing to a figure in the photo. A dark-haired Caucasian man with long, sharp features who looked about fifty years of age. His appearance vaguely reminded Dorsey of H.P Lovecraft. Lin was standing approximately three places to the right of him.
"It's Nick Land!"
Author's note: If I haven't made it obvious already, General-Secretary Lin is not a neoreactionary. Quite the opposite in fact. Still, this is an interesting connection to be made. I wonder if it will be important later?
Teaser: A Flag of Union
Chimeraguard
We do deserve to exist.
Hmm, I overall like the flags with the red middle better. Flag 3 is probably my favorite.
Tabascoheath
Unkempt, Evil-eyed Charlatan, and Pseudo-Mystic
- Location
- Your Nearest Orbital Habitat
Either 3 or 4.
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
Alright, an update: It appears that 3 is the solid winner here, but there is a problem. That emblem is derived from the International Flag of Planet Earth, a design that is copyright protected. According to its website, it can be used freely to represent planet Earth as long as it is not modified. This is a grey area because the flag I made doesn't technically represent planet Earth, but rather a fictional government. I've sent an email to the company in charge of it to clarify this use. If I am not permitted to use the central emblem in this manner, I will go with 6, which was my personal choice as backup anyway.
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
When are more flags and emblems posted?
Won't be for a while, I want to focus more on writing.
Prologue - Part 1
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
June 13th, 1982
Beirut, Lebanon
There was no time for Hassan to think. It was a clear Sunday, and yet no church bells tolled. The city was deserted, its residents cowering with fear. They did not know when the next wave of airstrikes would come, or which buildings were most likely to topple over. They had no defenses and barely any bunkers. All they could do is run or hide. As Hassan scanned the surroundings, he could not spot a single place of refuge. Run it was.
His sister, two years his younger, cowered beside him. Tugging on her dress, Hassan motioned her to follow him. They ducked through scattered alleyways while distant sounds of gunfire from the militias' skirmishes echoed between the buildings. The two did not know which way they were headed. From here, all they could see were endless concrete walls. Worst of all, they did not know how much time they had left.
Seven days ago, the nation of Israel had all but declared war on Lebanon, its neighbor to the north, in order to purge the country of the Palestinian Liberation Organization and its "leftist sympathizers" who had been waging a years-old uprising against the Catholic-dominated establishment. In a matter of days, Israeli tanks had stormed through the country while the air force launched airstrike after airstrike against military targets and population centers alike. Now, they were almost at Beirut, working together with their phalangist allies to seize control of the country.
Hassan had thought he was safe. Unlike those "terrorists" and "Bolsheviks" in the west of the city, his family were god-fearing Orthodox Christians. Sure, they had lived awfully close to the boundary between the leftist-controlled west of the city and the phalangist-controlled east, but his parents had never once doubted that the Christian militias would protect them. And if worst came to worse, Israel would come from the South, wiping out the menace for good.
It had been only five minutes since his parents had been killed by an Israeli missile, and Hassan still did not have the time to mourn. His sister, Maryam, was barely holding back her tears, and Hassan had to bring her back to the present. They passed through another passageway to emerge onto an open street, which held a sight that made the pair freeze. A line of greenery cutting right through the city - the dividing line between the territory controlled by the two sides of Lebanon's civil war. Cross it, and they would be in the enemy's territory.
Then again, Hassan no longer knew who his enemies were.
A distant roar of jet engines interrupted the eerie silence. The Israelis had returned. They could not afford to be out in the open.
"Run, Mira!" shouted Hassan to his sister. They raced into the street, almost stumbling upon a patch of tall grass. Adrenaline clouded their minds and pushed their muscles ever harder. Now, being shot by enemy militias was the least of their concerns. They had just reached the other side when a deafening blast from above shook them. A missile had impacted into the apartment bloc to the left of them, carving a gaping hole into the dilapidated façade. The building creaked and rumbled as the top half began to tilt forward. Collapse was imminent.
Before Hassan and Maryam could figure out what to do, they heard the voice of a man cry out in front of them.
"Come here, children!"
The two raced forward through the alley and past the building as the cracking noises intensified. In front, they saw a man waving at them. He was standing besides the entrance of a solidly-built concrete house, perfect for a makeshift bunker. With one final push, they closed in on the man and then leaped into the doorway as they heard the apartment block finally buckle behind them. The earth trembled for a second, and a faint cloud of dust filled the alleyway. Now safe but prone, the pair felt the man approach them, then slam the door shut.
Hassan slowly pulled himself off the ground, his legs aching from the exertion. He turned around to get a good look at their savior. He was around thirty years of age, sporting a full beard and wearing khaki clothing, a rifle slung behind his back. A militiaman, then. Hassan was surprised he hadn't shot the two children as they had crossed the street. The man motioned for them to move further into the compound. Hassan and Maryam wearily followed.
The next room was occupied by more militiamen. A table laid in the center, covered by multiple maps with various markings on them, depicting the current state of the war. In a corner laid a radio, currently broadcasting only static. On the wall to the right stood a rack of AK-47s and an RPG. It was then that Hassan finally saw the flag in another corner of the room - and his blood ran cold.
It was the flag of Lebanon, with the stripes turned 90 degrees in the French manner. On the upper left corner was inscribed, unmistakably, a hammer and sickle. They had fallen into the belly of the beast. Surrounding them were none other then militants of the Lebanese Communist Party, one of the groups that had instigated the civil war together with the PLO. Hassan's parents had told the siblings lurid tales of what these men stood for. That they were wild beasts who would raze churches and kidnap children in the middle of the night. That they were an unfathomable evil and it was the God-given duty of good Christians to expel them from Lebanon forever. And yet...
Hassan suppressed his rising panic and took a look around. These militants did not resemble the beasts of their imagination, but were only weary youths hunkering down while bombs and shells fell all around them. Hassan looked into the eyes of one and saw not malice, but only fear and desperation. Just like that, Hassan finally began to cry. Deep shards of anguish pierced his heart a thousand times as he finally came to terms with what had happened to them. It was all gone - their parents and their former lives. They were nobodies now, no different from the Palestinians sheltering a few kilometers from here.
Hassan felt a comforting hand rest upon his shoulder - the man who had rescued them. He turned, staring at the man's face through his tears. His expression was not of condescending pity, but of empathy. Had this man also lost relatives?
"I am Georges," said the man. Hassan's interest was piqued. Did he also come from a Christian background?
Their thoughts were interrupted by a sudden broadcast over the radio.
"The Burj al-Barajneh refugee camp and an Armenian hospital have been hit with cluster bombs from IDF. Casualties estimated in the hundreds."
A groan came from one of the militants. "They treat us like animals!" he shouted. A knot of horror grew in Hassan's stomach as he turned to his sister. If this was the war the Israelis were waging, they could not afford to leave the shelter. These strange militiamen and their strange ideology had given them refuge, and perhaps, a shot at picking up the shattered pieces of their lives. Perhaps they had just found a new family to be a part of.
Beirut, Lebanon
There was no time for Hassan to think. It was a clear Sunday, and yet no church bells tolled. The city was deserted, its residents cowering with fear. They did not know when the next wave of airstrikes would come, or which buildings were most likely to topple over. They had no defenses and barely any bunkers. All they could do is run or hide. As Hassan scanned the surroundings, he could not spot a single place of refuge. Run it was.
His sister, two years his younger, cowered beside him. Tugging on her dress, Hassan motioned her to follow him. They ducked through scattered alleyways while distant sounds of gunfire from the militias' skirmishes echoed between the buildings. The two did not know which way they were headed. From here, all they could see were endless concrete walls. Worst of all, they did not know how much time they had left.
Seven days ago, the nation of Israel had all but declared war on Lebanon, its neighbor to the north, in order to purge the country of the Palestinian Liberation Organization and its "leftist sympathizers" who had been waging a years-old uprising against the Catholic-dominated establishment. In a matter of days, Israeli tanks had stormed through the country while the air force launched airstrike after airstrike against military targets and population centers alike. Now, they were almost at Beirut, working together with their phalangist allies to seize control of the country.
Hassan had thought he was safe. Unlike those "terrorists" and "Bolsheviks" in the west of the city, his family were god-fearing Orthodox Christians. Sure, they had lived awfully close to the boundary between the leftist-controlled west of the city and the phalangist-controlled east, but his parents had never once doubted that the Christian militias would protect them. And if worst came to worse, Israel would come from the South, wiping out the menace for good.
It had been only five minutes since his parents had been killed by an Israeli missile, and Hassan still did not have the time to mourn. His sister, Maryam, was barely holding back her tears, and Hassan had to bring her back to the present. They passed through another passageway to emerge onto an open street, which held a sight that made the pair freeze. A line of greenery cutting right through the city - the dividing line between the territory controlled by the two sides of Lebanon's civil war. Cross it, and they would be in the enemy's territory.
Then again, Hassan no longer knew who his enemies were.
A distant roar of jet engines interrupted the eerie silence. The Israelis had returned. They could not afford to be out in the open.
"Run, Mira!" shouted Hassan to his sister. They raced into the street, almost stumbling upon a patch of tall grass. Adrenaline clouded their minds and pushed their muscles ever harder. Now, being shot by enemy militias was the least of their concerns. They had just reached the other side when a deafening blast from above shook them. A missile had impacted into the apartment bloc to the left of them, carving a gaping hole into the dilapidated façade. The building creaked and rumbled as the top half began to tilt forward. Collapse was imminent.
Before Hassan and Maryam could figure out what to do, they heard the voice of a man cry out in front of them.
"Come here, children!"
The two raced forward through the alley and past the building as the cracking noises intensified. In front, they saw a man waving at them. He was standing besides the entrance of a solidly-built concrete house, perfect for a makeshift bunker. With one final push, they closed in on the man and then leaped into the doorway as they heard the apartment block finally buckle behind them. The earth trembled for a second, and a faint cloud of dust filled the alleyway. Now safe but prone, the pair felt the man approach them, then slam the door shut.
Hassan slowly pulled himself off the ground, his legs aching from the exertion. He turned around to get a good look at their savior. He was around thirty years of age, sporting a full beard and wearing khaki clothing, a rifle slung behind his back. A militiaman, then. Hassan was surprised he hadn't shot the two children as they had crossed the street. The man motioned for them to move further into the compound. Hassan and Maryam wearily followed.
The next room was occupied by more militiamen. A table laid in the center, covered by multiple maps with various markings on them, depicting the current state of the war. In a corner laid a radio, currently broadcasting only static. On the wall to the right stood a rack of AK-47s and an RPG. It was then that Hassan finally saw the flag in another corner of the room - and his blood ran cold.
It was the flag of Lebanon, with the stripes turned 90 degrees in the French manner. On the upper left corner was inscribed, unmistakably, a hammer and sickle. They had fallen into the belly of the beast. Surrounding them were none other then militants of the Lebanese Communist Party, one of the groups that had instigated the civil war together with the PLO. Hassan's parents had told the siblings lurid tales of what these men stood for. That they were wild beasts who would raze churches and kidnap children in the middle of the night. That they were an unfathomable evil and it was the God-given duty of good Christians to expel them from Lebanon forever. And yet...
Hassan suppressed his rising panic and took a look around. These militants did not resemble the beasts of their imagination, but were only weary youths hunkering down while bombs and shells fell all around them. Hassan looked into the eyes of one and saw not malice, but only fear and desperation. Just like that, Hassan finally began to cry. Deep shards of anguish pierced his heart a thousand times as he finally came to terms with what had happened to them. It was all gone - their parents and their former lives. They were nobodies now, no different from the Palestinians sheltering a few kilometers from here.
Hassan felt a comforting hand rest upon his shoulder - the man who had rescued them. He turned, staring at the man's face through his tears. His expression was not of condescending pity, but of empathy. Had this man also lost relatives?
"I am Georges," said the man. Hassan's interest was piqued. Did he also come from a Christian background?
Their thoughts were interrupted by a sudden broadcast over the radio.
"The Burj al-Barajneh refugee camp and an Armenian hospital have been hit with cluster bombs from IDF. Casualties estimated in the hundreds."
A groan came from one of the militants. "They treat us like animals!" he shouted. A knot of horror grew in Hassan's stomach as he turned to his sister. If this was the war the Israelis were waging, they could not afford to leave the shelter. These strange militiamen and their strange ideology had given them refuge, and perhaps, a shot at picking up the shattered pieces of their lives. Perhaps they had just found a new family to be a part of.
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
This and the next two entries are a bit different than usual. I felt that I hadn't properly developed the backstories and characterizations of some of the characters featured in LtWP, and I think a prologue was warranted. My primary academic source for the events of Part I was "Chronology of the Israeli Invasion of Lebanon June-August 1982." For those who can't get access to it, here's the entry for June 13:
Prologue - Part 2
- Location
- Orlando, Florida
1984
Haidian, China
It was a cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Lunchtime at the August 1st secondary school was almost over, and the pupils were about to begin a grueling afternoon of classes. One student, however, was preoccupied. Lin Zhiming, fourteen years of age, was still sitting at a table, his face buried in a science fiction magazine. It was his only way of forgetting this world, even for a moment. As a child of shoemakers, he had to work twice as hard as the average city-dweller to rise above the pack. That attitude had gotten him into one of the most prestigious secondary schools in Beijing, but had also left a few of his more privileged classmates jealous.
Two of those very classmates were now approaching him. Little Lin looked up from his magazine only for his heart to sink into his stomach. It was Big Chen and Big Zhao, the two "princelings." Sons of eminent revolutionaries, they loomed over their peers - both literally and socially. The rest of the class called them the "Little Emperors," and few found them remotely pleasant in any way. Little Lin, a boy with the build of a string bean, cowered in fear whenever they approached. He had very good reason to do so.
"Greetings, Little Lin," sneered Big Chen, the larger of the two. "My, that magazine must be awfully interesting for you to risk arriving late to class for it. In fact, the attendant was so concerned for you that she specifically assigned us to check on you!"
Big Chen examined the magazine.
"What is this, Little Lin? Science fiction, much of it imported from the West?" he teased. "You do know that such works have an awfully bad influence on impressionable young minds. So much so that many in the Party call for their restriction!"
He titled his head in mockery.
"Now, it would be terrible if you, Little Lin, were to be caught with such contraband! Imagine how much trouble you could find yourself in! You and your entire family would be shamed! The stain on your reputation would take years to be wiped off!"
Big Chen slowly reached his hand towards the top of the magazine, slowly pulling it down while staring Little Lin straight in the eyes. The latter could see nothing but malice.
"It is so fortunate that I shall take care of your little problem for you! Now, I'll be taking thi-"
Something inside Little Lin snapped. Before he could think, he felt his fist connect with the side of Big Chen's lips and mouth. Pain shot through his knuckles as they made contact, throwing Big Chen's head back. For the next second, Little Lin was in a trace, unable to process what he had just done. Once he broke out, the first thing he noticed was how little damage he had done to the now overtly enraged Big Chen. With his weak muscles, he had not even been able to bruise his adversary! Fear rose in Little Lin as he braced for what he knew was about to come.
"You dare! Well, time to give a little rascal such as yourself a proper punishment!" shouted Big Chen. A split second later, and his hands were on Little Lin's throat. He pressed the boy's neck down on the table, squeezing tighter and tighter as Little Lin desperately flailed around. A second later, and Big Zhao had entered the fray, pinning Little Lin's hands to the table. He was truly helpless now, total panic rising inside him as he struggled to breathe, Big Chen's grip ironclad. It seemed an eternity later when the attacker finally let go, leaving Little Lin gasping for ear. Big Chen leered over Little Lin, a twisted smirk on his face.
"That will teach him! Come on, Big Zhao, the teacher is waiting for us!"
They departed for class, leaving Little Lin alone on the cafeteria table, shame and resentment flashing through him in equal measure. The two bullies were just the tip of the iceberg that was his worries. Every year, he grew more and more fearful of his parents' fate. With the new industrial reforms being passed, foreign investment was starting to enter the country. Every year, the city of Beijing expanded, threatening to swallow up every settlement in its path. Already, there were rumors that the state planned to establish several information technology enterprises in his home village of Haidian. Would his family suffer the fate of so many others: being swept away by the tides of progress? Where was the Party in their time of need?
Little Lin picked himself up, folded the magazine into his school briefcase, and hurried to class. Now, only his studies offered any chance at salvation. One day, he would teach the Little Emperors of the world that he deserved their respect, even if it would be decades before that moment.
For Little Lin did not believe in fate.
Haidian, China
It was a cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Lunchtime at the August 1st secondary school was almost over, and the pupils were about to begin a grueling afternoon of classes. One student, however, was preoccupied. Lin Zhiming, fourteen years of age, was still sitting at a table, his face buried in a science fiction magazine. It was his only way of forgetting this world, even for a moment. As a child of shoemakers, he had to work twice as hard as the average city-dweller to rise above the pack. That attitude had gotten him into one of the most prestigious secondary schools in Beijing, but had also left a few of his more privileged classmates jealous.
Two of those very classmates were now approaching him. Little Lin looked up from his magazine only for his heart to sink into his stomach. It was Big Chen and Big Zhao, the two "princelings." Sons of eminent revolutionaries, they loomed over their peers - both literally and socially. The rest of the class called them the "Little Emperors," and few found them remotely pleasant in any way. Little Lin, a boy with the build of a string bean, cowered in fear whenever they approached. He had very good reason to do so.
"Greetings, Little Lin," sneered Big Chen, the larger of the two. "My, that magazine must be awfully interesting for you to risk arriving late to class for it. In fact, the attendant was so concerned for you that she specifically assigned us to check on you!"
Big Chen examined the magazine.
"What is this, Little Lin? Science fiction, much of it imported from the West?" he teased. "You do know that such works have an awfully bad influence on impressionable young minds. So much so that many in the Party call for their restriction!"
He titled his head in mockery.
"Now, it would be terrible if you, Little Lin, were to be caught with such contraband! Imagine how much trouble you could find yourself in! You and your entire family would be shamed! The stain on your reputation would take years to be wiped off!"
Big Chen slowly reached his hand towards the top of the magazine, slowly pulling it down while staring Little Lin straight in the eyes. The latter could see nothing but malice.
"It is so fortunate that I shall take care of your little problem for you! Now, I'll be taking thi-"
Something inside Little Lin snapped. Before he could think, he felt his fist connect with the side of Big Chen's lips and mouth. Pain shot through his knuckles as they made contact, throwing Big Chen's head back. For the next second, Little Lin was in a trace, unable to process what he had just done. Once he broke out, the first thing he noticed was how little damage he had done to the now overtly enraged Big Chen. With his weak muscles, he had not even been able to bruise his adversary! Fear rose in Little Lin as he braced for what he knew was about to come.
"You dare! Well, time to give a little rascal such as yourself a proper punishment!" shouted Big Chen. A split second later, and his hands were on Little Lin's throat. He pressed the boy's neck down on the table, squeezing tighter and tighter as Little Lin desperately flailed around. A second later, and Big Zhao had entered the fray, pinning Little Lin's hands to the table. He was truly helpless now, total panic rising inside him as he struggled to breathe, Big Chen's grip ironclad. It seemed an eternity later when the attacker finally let go, leaving Little Lin gasping for ear. Big Chen leered over Little Lin, a twisted smirk on his face.
"That will teach him! Come on, Big Zhao, the teacher is waiting for us!"
They departed for class, leaving Little Lin alone on the cafeteria table, shame and resentment flashing through him in equal measure. The two bullies were just the tip of the iceberg that was his worries. Every year, he grew more and more fearful of his parents' fate. With the new industrial reforms being passed, foreign investment was starting to enter the country. Every year, the city of Beijing expanded, threatening to swallow up every settlement in its path. Already, there were rumors that the state planned to establish several information technology enterprises in his home village of Haidian. Would his family suffer the fate of so many others: being swept away by the tides of progress? Where was the Party in their time of need?
Little Lin picked himself up, folded the magazine into his school briefcase, and hurried to class. Now, only his studies offered any chance at salvation. One day, he would teach the Little Emperors of the world that he deserved their respect, even if it would be decades before that moment.
For Little Lin did not believe in fate.