Automatic Eve

by Rokuro Inui

  And, to judge from the telltale rocking motion of some of the boats, many found customers.

  Facing the canal on the other side of the path was a series of rough-looking thatched hovels. Here and there men with danger in their eyes lurked between the buildings, watching the road like predators lying in wait by a trail.

  Tentoku picked up his pace, but it was too late. A figure ahead stepped directly into his path, forcing him to stop.

  “Evening, Tentoku. Doing well for yourself, I hear.”

  The voice was familiar.

  It was the man with the air of a ronin who had come to the bathhouse as Chokichi’s messenger. Seijuro.

  “Thing is, though,” Seijuro continued, “thanks to you, we took a big loss. Very embarrassing for the boss. Hardly a fair deal, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  He drew a sword from the scabbard at his waist. Pale moonlight glinted off the blade into Tentoku’s eyes.

  Raspy moans of ecstasy came faintly from a boat floating not far away.

  Tentoku dropped into a shikiri stance, fists on the ground, and glowered at Seijuro, who stood about ten feet away. Unlike his opponent, Tentoku was unarmed, but he thought he had a chance if he could use his full body weight. He quickly formulated a plan: knock Seijuro into the canal somehow, and then run for it.

  Seijuro was surprisingly calm. He must have some confidence in his swordsmanship.

  Tentoku sprang forward, preparing to charge Seijuro off his feet.

  But at the first step, pain stabbed into the sole of his foot.

  He grunted and lost his balance, landing with one hand on the ground, and felt the same pain run through his palm.

  He brought his hand close to his face and peered at it in the dim light. A four-pointed iron star was embedded in his palm by one wickedly sharp tine.

  Makibishi. Seijuro must have covered the path with them in advance.

  It did him no good to notice that now. The one he had stepped on must be hooked; every step he took sent agony up his spine. Running away from this fight was no longer an option. He could barely even walk.

  “Let me tell you what I thought,” Seijuro said. “If I were fighting a bear or a wild boar, what would I do? I even considered laying a tiger trap for you.” He laughed. “Now, this is just a warning, so I’m not going to kill you. But your wrestling days are over, kid. Lucky for you, you don’t need both arms to wash backs at the bathhouse.”

  “Wait,” Tentoku stuttered, paralyzed with pain, but he had barely gotten the word out when Seijuro’s blade flashed.

  An instant later, Tentoku’s severed hand fell to the ground. Blood spewed from the wound, as if to paint the darkness even blacker.

  Seijuro turned and fled.

  Tentoku, already woozy from blood loss, curled up into a ball. There was no point in calling for help—this was Ganjin Canal. He would only attract someone eager to finish him off and loot his corpse.

  At the sound of footsteps approaching, he stiffened and raised his head.

  Standing before him, contrary to his worst expectations, was a woman in a red kosode.

  It was her. The woman from the bathhouse.

  No rain was falling, but she carried an opened umbrella, resting it on her shoulder. Tentoku looked up at her from where he knelt on the ground.

  And then everything was suddenly very far away.

  V

  When I was pregnant with you, I dreamt there was a whale in my belly.

  Somewhere he thought he heard his mother’s voice.

  He was in a dark box, curled up and hugging his knees.

  The whale on his back began to thrash until the foamy waves that ran down his arms and legs set his very skin in motion and the open sea spilled out of him.

  Then he was a whale, spouting a jet of vapor into the air before diving beneath the surface.

  He saw curtains of light rippling in the vivid blue waters of the ocean.

  “Back with us, are you?”

  A male voice called him back.

  Opening his eyes just a fraction, Tentoku found himself in unfamiliar surroundings.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Eve carried you back here after she found you bleeding to death by Ganjin Canal.”

  He realized that he was lying on a stone floor.

  The air was chilly. There were no windows or openings to let in light from outside, and he saw no candles or lamps, but somehow the room was brightly lit.

  He sat up to see a man of perhaps sixty standing before him. The man wore an indigo kosode with a long crepe silk jacket. He had the air of a petty official in the shogunate, and this only made the tubelike object he wore over one eye seem all the stranger.

  “Who are you?” Tentoku said.

  “I am Kyuzo Kugimiya, assistant at the shogunal refinery, and you are in my home. Unfortunately, I am no physician, but I do know how to sew up a sword wound.”

  Tentoku started and looked down at his arm.

  His entire right forearm had been severed. The arm now ended just below the elbow in a tight bundle of white cloth with blood seeping through the end.

  “Now that you are awake, be off to your home,” said Kyuzo. “I don’t have room here for gigantic sumo wrestlers to laze around.”

  “Kyuzo, don’t be like that. You must help him somehow. Just keep him from leaving and I’ll do the rest.”

  “What are you talking about? You’ll be stuck like that for at least two or three more days. I must inspect every detail.”

  “I know, I know … but still …”

  Who is he speaking to? Tentoku thought warily.

  Kyuzo was looking in the direction of several raised platforms. Tentoku could not see what was on them from the floor, but the voice certainly sounded as if it were coming from there.

  “I hear you are a sumo wrestler,” said Kyuzo to him. “Geiemon Tentoku, was it?”

  “Yes,” said Tentoku weakly.

  “Losing a hand puts an end to that career, I suppose. You can’t reach for their belt while protecting your own if you only have one hand.”

  That much was true.

  “I’d just gotten an offer to join a stable,” said Tentoku. “I was finally going to be able to pay back the couple who adopted me. They run the bathhouse—”

  “Save the sob story for them, then,” Kyuzo said. With obvious disinterest, he turned and walked toward the platforms.

  Seeing nothing else he could do, Tentoku used his remaining hand to push himself to his feet.

  What he saw once he was standing made him gasp.

  In the middle of the room were six platforms of various sizes, all glowing white.

  The central platform, the largest, had a woman’s headless torso on it.

  To the left and right of this, about three feet away, stood two narrower platforms with arms resting on them. Further down were two more narrow platforms on which had been placed a leg each.

  All of these limbs were connected to the torso by bundles of tubes and wires that sagged low between the platforms.

  The eeriest thing was the female head sitting on the far platform, beyond the central one. It looked like a display after an execution.

  “What is this?” Tentoku asked. The sight was so bizarre that he found himself surprisingly calm.

  He knew the head from somewhere. But where?

  Then it hit him. It was the woman from the bathhouse. The woman in the red kosode.

  “Try moving your fingers,” Kyuzo said to the head, ignoring the baffled Tentoku. “One at a time. Slowly.”

  He could see into the open ends of the limbs on the platform, giving him a cross-section view of their dully gleaming, apparently machined bones. It took a moment for him to realize that the incessant squirming motion was actually the gears and clockwork that had been packed into
them.

  The head blinked its reply to Kyuzo—nodding would have been impractical—and the fingers of one of the arms on a separate platform began slowly moving. They flexed one by one, from the thumb outward, as if testing the joints.

  “Did you … make those arms?” Tentoku asked.

  “Oh, I made more than her arms. The woman is an automaton from head to toe.”

  Tentoku leaned closer to the headless torso, trying to see what an automaton was like inside.

  “Please don’t stare like that,” the head said. She never showed a hint of embarrassment when stripping down at the bathhouse, but her cheeks were burning red now. She bit her lip and closed her eyes.

  Tentoku hurriedly looked away.

  “Don’t let her bother you,” Kyuzo said. “She has the form of a human, but she is not ensouled.”

  Tentoku struggled to believe this. What about the embarrassed look he had just seen? Was it just a front designed to deceive him?

  He looked down at his right arm. It still felt whole to him, even below the elbow. A phantom remnant of sensation.

  “Kyuzo,” said the woman.

  “What?”

  “Would you consider making an arm for our esteemed guest?”

  Tentoku looked up in surprise.

  “You could do that?” he asked.

  Kyuzo frowned deeply. He removed the scope from his eye.

  “I have never joined a human body to an automaton,” he said.

  “But if anyone could do it …” said the head.

  “Eve, be quiet for once,” Kyuzo said softly.

  Eve closed her eyes.

  “I suppose you know about Kainsai’s prints,” Kyuzo said. “She must have learned about you that way.” He almost sounded apologetic.

  But Tentoku was preoccupied by the possibility of his arm being restored.

  Perhaps detecting that from his expression, Kyuzo spoke again.

  “As I said earlier, I’ve never joined an automaton to a human body. My concern is that if a soul can learn to drive a machine, the machine may react unpredictably when the soul is in turmoil. In truth I do not know what might happen in that case. Is this risk acceptable to you?”

  Tentoku nodded.

  “Do you have money? Even for a single arm, this won’t be cheap.”

  “The Akesaka stable is offering me fifteen ryo in gold to sign up. Will that be enough?”

  After a moment’s consideration, Kyuzo nodded.

  VI

  Rumors spread that Tentoku’s troubles with Chokichi had ended in his secret murder. When he appeared at the bathhouse again, a month had passed.

  He steadfastly refused to tell Senroku and Chitose where he had been. He accepted the Akesaka domain’s offer, and his fifteen ryo vanished immediately.

  Even then, Senroku and Chitose did not press the matter further, trusting that he was doing what he must given whatever circumstances he now found himself under. Their kindness made his chest ache.

  Even after he moved to the Akesaka compound to live and train with the rest of the stable—even after he began competing in the major tournaments and rising up the rankings—Tentoku never missed a gift day at the bathhouse. And as a sign of filial gratitude, he always brought the largest gift he could.

  Today was no exception.

  “Hey, Tentoku!” Chitose called, leaning out of the high chair.

  “Happy gift day,” he said, placing a fold of paper on the special tray set out below the chair. The weight of the gift alone indicated that it contained a considerable sum.”

  “Are you sure you can afford that?” Chitose asked. “We thought you owed someone money.”

  Fortunately, although Kyuzo Kugimiya had taken the full fifteen ryo from him, no further payments were required.

  “Anyway, you’re here now. Why not have a soak before you go?”

  Tentoku hesitated for a moment before removing his sandals and stepping into the changing room.

  He shrugged off his cotton yukata and entered the washing area. It was full of familiar faces.

  As an attendant, he had worn a waistcloth, but he had only a single hand towel to protect his privacy now. No one else there had anything more, but he felt oddly bashful all the same.

  “Hey, it’s Tentoku! Long time no see!”

  O-Tomi waved at him from the corner. She had spotted him at once.

  “You’ve really made something of yourself. I like to think I played my part. So, would you mind … ?”

  “Leave Tentoku alone, O-Tomi,” called Chitose from above. “He’s here as our guest today.”

  “Just kidding,” said O-Tomi. “I definitely couldn’t afford the gift I’d have to leave after getting my back washed by the next sumo champion.”

  The washing area filled with laughter.

  Other customers slapped Tentoku on the back or chest and said their hellos too. In the end he practically fled into the bath chamber, diving under the low doorway. The light was dimmer in there, and the room was filled with white steam.

  He stepped into the bath and lowered himself into the water carefully to make sure the water didn’t all spill out at once. Cupping his hands, he splashed water on his face to rinse it off.

  He looked at his right arm. Tattooed designs of roaring waves and foam now covered every inch below his shoulder, except for the fingers and palm of his hand.

  Eve had done the work for him. The lines skillfully obscured the boundary between man and automaton. Of course, peeling back the skin would immediately reveal the dull gleam of metal.

  After endless practice gripping and relaxing, the hand felt completely natural. He could hardly believe it wasn’t the real thing.

  In fact, it was better.

  He cast his mind back to a conversation that had happened at Kyuzo’s residence, several months after the hand was first attached.

  He was already appearing in grand sumo tournaments, and the consensus was that his technique had changed dramatically. None of the wrestlers he met at this level were susceptible to petty tricks like the rear toe pick. It was painful to realize that his trademark move was useless against them and to watch the black stars that signified losses appear beside his name.

  He was only visiting Kyuzo to show him how his hand was working, but he couldn’t help bringing up his problem.

  Couldn’t his arm be made even stronger than a regular man’s? Two, three times as strong?

  When he promised to pay Kyuzo the five ryo he would receive as a bonus from his domain if he won the upcoming tournament, it was Eve who frowned.

  “Isn’t that cheating?” she asked, sitting across from Tentoku at the workbench his arm rested on.

  Tentoku didn’t understand the details of how the automated hand had been fused to his living stump, but the shining metal arm that appeared when the false skin was peeled back was undeniably artificial. Kyuzo lowered his face, peering through his trademark scope, and silently began adjusting the arm’s mechanism with slim, tiny tools that looked like ear picks and powdered tea scoops.

  Eve watched from across the table, painting the scene on a sheet of paper with a thin brush.

  Despite Kyuzo’s silence, when Tentoku tested his arm afterward he found it several times stronger at least.

  Now he could push even the biggest opponent over. It didn’t even matter whether he was pushing from above or below so long as he used his right hand. Once, when an opponent he was grappling with whispered in his ear, “I heard you were born by the canal outside the Floors—and then abandoned there,” Tentoku went into a frenzy. When he came to his senses, his hand was wrapped tightly around the other man’s windpipe. If the official had been slower to intervene, he might have killed the man. He had done this without even realizing it—it was as if the arm had a will of its own.

  The machine may react unpr
edictably when the soul is in turmoil.

  Tentoku remembered Kyuzo’s warning with a troubled mind as he soaked in the bath.

  And then someone spoke.

  “Hey there, Tentoku. Still living the charmed life, I hear.”

  The voice came from a blurred human form visible through the billowing steam at the other end of the bath. He had not noticed anyone come in through the low door, so whoever it was must have been waiting for him.

  “How’d you grow that arm back, kid? I distinctly remember cutting it off.”

  It was Seijuro.

  Tentoku scrambled to his feet, setting the bath churning with high waves.

  But there was nowhere to run. The only exit was so low that he practically had to crawl through it. If Seijuro was carrying a blade, that would be an invitation for him to use it.

  “You put me through a lot, you know,” said Seijuro. “I got branded. My wife was sold to the Thirteen Floors. They took my son as a hostage. If I don’t make things right this time, I don’t know what they’ll do to me next. You’re not getting away with three limbs this time. This time, you die.”

  Seijuro stood up as well. He was carrying a short sword, the blade about two feet long. How he had brought it in was a mystery.

  “Dad, come on!” called a little boy from outside the entrance.

  Tentoku moved in front of the door so that no one could come in and turned to face Seijuro in the narrow bath chamber.

  Seijuro jabbed at him with the tip of the sword. Tentoku thrust out his right hand and caught the blade in his open palm.

  The dull clank of metal on metal reverberated inside the chamber.

  The sword’s tip had pierced Tentoku’s hand, but no blood spilled from the wound, and the sword didn’t run his palm through. Instead, the blade snapped, flying back to sink into Seijuro’s throat.

  Tentoku heard the whistle of breath escaping from the new slit in Seijuro’s windpipe.

  Still gripping the sword’s now-useless hilt, Seijuro toppled sideways into the water with a colossal splash. The bathwater churned and spilled over the edge of the tub. Seijuro floated facedown and motionless.