Wearing the Cape 5: Ronin Games

by Marion G. Harmon

  But growing stuff takes a lot of space and not every inch of shoreline was built on. I had chosen Kagoshima Prefecture, just north of small Shibushi Port and far from the megalopolis that was the Greater Tokyo area. The plan had been to walk into Shibushi, wheeling our bags behind us, and rent a car for the road-trip. Easy, but Shell was our map. Also, we were going to look a lot more conspicuous now, walking into town with no luggage and two of us holding American passports. And although I hadn’t gotten shot out of the sky, the lifter’s explosion had to have put somebody on alert; even a notice to the local police to keep their eyes open could doom us if we stood out. We needed to connect with Shell, but first we needed to get out of Shibushi without attracting attention. And before that, we had to get into Shibushi without attracting attention.

  I watched rainwater drip off the black-rock cliffs and tried not to feel overwhelmed. Beside me, Ozma sat down and started unpacking her magic box. Laying aside a silver tea set and a water-filled crystal ball occupied by a happily swimming clownfish, she pulled out a small plastic eye-drop bottle labeled #5.

  “Will we be going soon? If we are, it really is time for this.”

  Jacky rolled her eyes. “And what’s that?”

  “Comprehension drops. Apply daily to eyes, ears, and tongue to comprehend and be comprehended.”

  I stopped half-heartedly adjusting my sword harness, fought the smile spreading across my face. “How do you make those?” Wait for it…

  “I started with a flash drive full of Japanese-language textbooks, dictionaries, and self-study audio files and dissolved it in a universal solvent. After that it was simply a matter of separation and distillation.”

  Of course that’s what it was. Jacky just shook her head, but I snorted a laugh before getting it under control. Okay, still not a fan of magic, but Oz magic? It just made my world a brighter place.

  “So we’ll all be able to talk like native Japanese? Why are Jacky and I still American citizens, then?”

  “Because although you’ll be able to understand and speak Japanese, you don’t know the culture. It’s very formal, and if you talk like an educated Tokyo native and don’t use the honorifics or bow correctly you’ll look and sound unspeakably rude.”

  I started to protest, stopped myself; my knowledge of Japanese etiquette didn’t go beyond basic “san” use, bowing, and introductions—the “boardroom etiquette” Japanese businessmen appreciated seeing when visiting Chicago.

  “And you know how?” Jacky cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Of course. The degrees of social deference and appropriate addresses are all based on older Japanese court-behavior and I can do court in any country in Europe, Asia, and the Indian Subcontinent. I can do court in Siam.”

  “So you’ll come across as an educated aristocratic Japanese blue-blood?”

  “And you are both my American cousins. Nobody here expects foreigners to have proper etiquette, so you won’t be considered crude once they know you’re American. Just don’t speak Japanese unless you absolutely have to, and watch the bows. I’ll explain on our way to town, and you’ll pick it up after a while.”

  She’d been putting drops in her eyes and ears while talking, and only Ozma could look graceful with her head tilted ninety-degrees sideways and a dropper in her ear. She finished by putting a last drop on her tongue, coughing softly and licking her teeth. “So. Watashi wa Nihongo ga hanasemasu. Your turns.”

  I took the bottle and refilled the dropper. The honey-colored liquid sparkled in the gray light, and…was it whispering? Okay then… A drop in each eye, one in each ear, the last drop on my tongue making me wrinkle my nose as I swallowed. The stuff tasted like dust, like endless hours of study and heavy, boring books. I replayed Ozma’s words in my head, and laughed. “I can speak Japanese.” Nice. “I am a beagle. I can’t find my shoes.” It worked as long as I didn’t think about it, and I felt infinitely better; at least I’d be able to read the street signs and understand what was being said around me.

  After examining our papers and cards, we turned our rings and did the transformation from Magical Girls in Black to Vacationing Girls Who’d Lost Their Luggage (even our glowing magic rings disappeared from view when I didn’t focus on them). Flying up from our hiding place beneath the beach cliffs, we found the ocean road that ran above them. The rain had stopped, and we walked along the cliff side of the road for only a few minutes before a little farm truck came up behind us headed for Shibushi.

  It slowed politely so as not to spray us, then stopped and backed up, and Jacky and I let Ozma step ahead of us to engage the concerned-looking farmer who got out. A brief conversation later we were all perched on the back of the truck, sitting high and dry on top of a load of produce crates full of beets.

  I’d forgotten that one of Ozma’s superpowers was overwhelming beauty and perfection; she’d explained to our farmer that our car had broken down past the last crossroad, and that we’d left it with our driver to wait for a tow while we walked. A few smiles and a sincere request for help and the farmer didn’t ask why we were walking along dry after the rain, or why we would want to walk five miles into Shibushi, and the only reason Ozma wasn’t riding in the cab with him was because it was also full of wet dog. Not that he would have laid a lecherous finger on her—or even thought of it. Although the dog would have wanted to adopt her. Our farmer let us down at his stop at the produce market on the edge of town, Ozma thanking him nicely and Jacky and I just nodding as she assured him we would be fine.

  Our stop turned out to be lucky; as we walked away up the street we saw far too many of the little police cars for a quiet morning and watchful, if polite, policemen stood about talking to early morning pedestrians. To get to the square in front of the train station—where the plan was to get tickets and ride the Nishinan Line to Miyazaki (not where we wanted to go, but away from Shibushi)—we would have to walk past three pairs of officers checking IDs and…

  I didn’t freeze, but found a sudden interest in the display window of a clothing store.

  “Who are the capes?” Jacky asked, examining a light yellow summer coat.

  “They’re The Eight Excellent Protectors.”

  “And they shouldn’t be here?”

  “No!” I made myself turn and look at them—perfectly safe since virtually everyone on the street except the police were doing the same.

  Jacky smiled. “Are we going to fight them? With capes that pretty, power and skill has got to be their least important qualification. It’ll be fun.” She shrugged when I glared at her. “What? We’re supervillains now.” Which of course was complete nonsense, but she said it so straight I almost started to tell her so before I realized she was joking.

  The Eight Excellent Protectors were pretty; all girls from mid-teens to mid-twenties, they dressed in nearly identical costumes that featured high boots and barely-there pleated skirts. White-on-gray with bright seam and shoulder trim matched equally brightly dyed hair to individualize each Protector. Standing together they made a colorfully rainbow-haired team, looking alert while pleasantly acknowledging the townspeople staring at them (a few younger kids even dared to dart up for autographs).

  And they had no right to be there.

  “Ladies,” Ozma said. “I feel like breakfast.” Taking our arms, she guided us into a ramen shop two storefronts down.

  The cheerfully called greetings by the shop’s entire visible staff startled me, and the waitress’s repeated bows and Ozma’s seated bow kept me distracted while she ordered for herself and her “American cousins.” When our waitress brought us our fragrantly steaming bowls (filled with ramen floating in broth and topped with slices of rolled pork and sides of bamboo, seaweed, and two halves of a soft-boiled egg), Ozma did a weird hand-clasping bow over hers chanting “I humbly receive.” before lifting her bowl closer to her face and using her chopsticks to pick up pork-slabs and take little bites out of them.

  When in Rome… Eyes on the doorway, I fumbled the little prayer bef
ore picking up my bowl and chopsticks to imitate her. Jacky followed suit.

  The ramen was tasty, warm, and actually calmed me down (it helped that nobody was looking at us). Well, a group of young male diners were surreptitiously staring at Ozma and at Jacky, who looked even taller in Japan.

  Focusing on Ozma’s Japanese-princess perfection kept reminding me that I looked no different than anyone around me, too. Nobody would see me and shout “Astra!” Or even “American!” The moment I started to relax was the moment the policeman stepped into the shop. Of course.

  He nodded at the called greetings and engaged the nearest waitress in whispered conversation. The table next to them might not have heard him, but even with the cheerful pop music playing on the shop’s entertainment system my super-duper hearing picked up “visitors?”

  Mentally counting the number of bystanders in the shop, I looked down at my bowl. My last bite lodged in my throat and the ramen I’d eaten wanted to join it. “We take anything outside,” I whispered. This was going to be a short adventure, after all.

  Two tasteless bites of pork later, the officer stood by our table and gave us a polite “Good morning.” Bean-pole thin and barely taller than me, his short-sleeved uniform shirt and checker-brimmed police cap damp from the rain, he didn’t look old enough to be wearing his badge and gun.

  Ozma matched his minimal bow. “Good morning, sir. It is a wet day.”

  “It is. I am sorry if it has inconvenienced you. You are passing through Shibushi?”

  “I and my American cousins are going to see our uncle.”

  “Ah. I am sorry for the difficulty, but may I see your identification?”

  “There is no difficulty.” Ozma reached into her purse and handed him a green-edged plastic card. I could see her picture and information. “I am from Chiba prefecture.” The officer accepted the ID card with both hands and read it carefully. I tried very hard to look curious instead of ready to surrender to the authorities.

  “And where does your uncle live?”

  “In Shibushi, presently,” said the man behind him.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I was looking at a picture of my dad and the rest of the founding Sentinels.

  “Why did you choose Shibushi?” our new “uncle” asked.

  The man had shown the policeman a gold-bordered ID with a second card, eliciting a deeply respectful bow and apologies. Our imminent arrest averted, he had sat with us while we finished our ramen and then escorted us to his car (parked in the yellow-zone in front of the train station) and drove us out of town to the last place I’d expected to actually visit: Shibushi’s Heroes Without Borders East facility and airstrip.

  Standing in his office, I’d let my eyes go right to one of the many framed group-pictures on his wall.

  “Erica,” Ozma said softly—the name on my forged passport—and I started. Right; we were half-caught so she didn’t need to play the local and socially superior cousin. Mister Konishi had skipped right to English anyway.

  “I’m sorry. Shibushi is isolated and not near anything sensitive. I thought it offered the best chance for arriving unnoticed.” I didn’t tell him that I’d also picked it because Dad and the rest of the Sentinels had worked from this facility during their time with Heroes Without Borders in China. “What happened?”

  He smiled from where he sat. The manager of the facility, he had offered us all chairs and joined us instead of going behind his desk.

  “Two things. First, a deep-sea fisherman reported a high-altitude explosion to Defensenet. It was far enough offshore that nothing was likely to come of it, but with recent events being what they are, Defensenet sent The Eight Excellent Protectors here just in case.”

  “Recent events?”

  “Shibushi was the home of one of Japan’s largest oil reserve facilities, until three weeks ago. A kaiju attack set it on fire and would have created the biggest environmental oil disaster in history if our country’s hydrokinetics and pyrokinetics hadn’t been able to contain it. The port was almost destroyed, and the reserve facility will not be rebuilt, costing many local jobs. Defensenet was criticized for not responding quickly enough to the initial sighting report, thus The Excellent Eight Protectors. The police are another matter; a Defensenet boat in the area found debris consistent with a craft’s fuselage. Again, not likely anything threatening, but it raised the possibility of unauthorized visitors. And here you are.”

  I winced. I’d read about the attack in our weekly threat-briefing, but had no idea it had almost been so bad. There were so many kaiju attacks.

  “Okay,” Jacky said. “Here we are. Why are we here, and not under arrest?”

  “It is not my duty to supply the deficiencies of the police.” He said it like it was supposed to mean something, and sighed when none of us replied.

  “Really, do none of you children read your own great literature anymore? What would you say if I told you that you presented me with a three pipe problem?”

  “Sherlock Holmes!” I laughed, feeling much easier. His smile turned saturnine.

  “Indeed. However, I did not deduce your identities. Indeed, I do not know them. The second thing that happened this morning is I received a telephone call from an old associate. I have worked for Heroes Without Borders since its inception, and being the sort who often crosses borders, I am a useful man to know. Some years ago I did favors for an associate whose identity is still unknown to me. He would occasionally call and ask me to deliver things. Not harmful things, merely things that would not otherwise be there; things he did not want anyone to know were going there.

  “In return, my associate would occasionally pass along a bit of prescient information. A coming disaster, manmade or natural. A humanitarian crisis that would soon require our attention. These early warnings allowed us to prepare and often saved thousands of lives. Do you know my associate?”

  Jacky had stiffened as he explained, and I fought to keep my face straight. Mr. Konishi had to be talking about the Teatime Anarchist. He’d been part of his network, the same way Jacky had, even if he’d never met him. But since the Anarchist was dead… “I think that I at least know someone who worked for your associate.”

  “Indeed. We have not traded favors for some years now, but this morning someone representing him called and informed me of your arrival and your need. He assured me that you are no threat to my country. Is this so?”

  “Yes.” That at least I could say with absolute truth.

  “Good.” His smile softened. “I have a list of things to acquire for you, and I can take you as far as Miyazaki. However, since I do not know when my associate will again be in a position to repay me, I must respectfully ask that you do something for me as well. I am informed that you are ‘up to it?’”

  * * *

  “Do we trust him?” Jacky’s voice told me she didn’t.

  Mr. Konishi had shown us to an empty barracks. The Spartan facility had men’s and women’s sections, rooms with nothing but rows of beds and lockers, showers and baths, and a common social room full of old furniture. We wouldn’t be staying, but he thought we’d like to relax while he made arrangements.

  Looking around us, I shrugged. “It looks like Shell did. And we don’t have a lot of choice.”

  The job he had for us was simple, really. There was a reported outbreak of a savage strain of flu virus in the Chinese state of Anhui. Few healthy adults would die of it, but there were a lot of unhealthy adults there as well as vulnerable children and seniors. In about an hour, he was taking receipt of a planeload of vaccines and palliatives for the medical stations in the poorer districts; all he had to do was refuel the plane and send it on its way.

  But superhumans working for local warlords were hijacking planes in flight, and as the empty rooms showed, he currently had no HWB superhumans in the facility to ride with the plane. He’d get some, in a day or four, but the medicine needed to get to Anhui now; each lost day meant dozens or hundreds more falling ill and increased
the risk of the outbreak turning into an epidemic. Mister Konishi was willing to help us evade capture, if we safeguarded the mission.