Mac, he calls me, which is short for Makoto. Everyone in the Empire has a Japanese name, no matter their ethnicity. Most also have a nickname in the dominant language of their region. Mine is the name of one of my favorite USJ boxers. “There it is.”
A whole section of the arcade is devoted to Cat Odyssey. All ninety-eight stalls are occupied by gamers. Fortunately, one of our friends saved us a spot.
She’s Griselda Beringer, an exchange student from the Reich city of Hamburg. Taller than each of us, she’s ethnically half-German, half-Japanese. Her hair is blond, and she has sharp green eyes. She is studying engineering and shares our love for gaming. Her specialty is flight and driving simulations. She’s especially good with the Zero sims, beating everyone I’ve seen dogfight against her in the Pacific War re-creations. Unlike us, she doesn’t have to take the imperial exams (German university exams are later), so she can game until her fingers get tired. It’s just the three of us tonight because all our friends are studying for the weeklong exam, which I know is what I should be doing too. I just want to play the new Cat Odyssey.
“How is it?” I ask Griselda, who’s been playing it for the last hour.
She shrugs, intentionally noncommittal to tease me.
“That good?” I say.
She moves aside so I can start. I open my portical, flip out the triangular edges, and use the kikkai field to connect to the game. The display on the stall is hooked into my portical, which I can use as my controller with custom configurations that remain constant. My saved data profiles from my treks through previous iterations of the feline journey come through.
I get dropped into old Los Angeles. Much of the city is in ruins, firebombed by our air force. The Americans are killing anyone they can find of Japanese descent and, incidentally, everyone who appears Asian. They are barbaric in the way they treat foreigners. My cat avatar, Soseki (I know it’s a bit of a cliché when it comes to avatar names), stealthily makes her way through the city alleys. They’ve increased the number of polygonal facets and rewritten the fur system so that it generates cylindrical meshes rather than the usual field of flat planes masquerading as fur. The attention to detail is remarkable.
Much of my gear from my previous save file also transfers over. The Susano Cape lets me traverse water. The Fujin Boot gives my cat the ability to do a double jump in the air. A Tanuki suit grants me a spell to change into a stone statue, which makes me invulnerable to hostiles. With my equipment in place, all of Los Angeles is open for me. Stories based on real-life accounts play out. Many of my missions involve helping those suffering under American rule and assisting USJ soldiers where I can. There is a sense of helplessness that pervades, punctuated by melancholy but catchy music. Orchestral and digitized versions of all the music play in the background, and I opt for the retro-styled beats that are similar to the earlier Odyssey games. Kawada composes all the music in the series. I frequently put myself to sleep listening to his tracks.
I am on my fifteenth mission when Griselda and Hideki pull me away.
“What’s going on?” I ask, annoyed by the interruption.
“You’ve been playing for four hours. Let’s grab something to eat.”
I have to check the clock to make sure they’re not lying to me. They’re not.
There’s a café in the arcade. Hideki orders okonomiyaki with spicy sausages, squid, and pepper jack cheese. Griselda orders a taco with chicken skewers and curry-topped goat nachos. I can’t stop thinking about what to do next and order a watermelon burger salad. It’s a cheap bowl filled with ground beef, fruit, and spinach that’s light, so I can focus on my game without bathroom breaks.
“How are you liking the game?” Griselda asks as she hands me a fork.
“So far, beating expectations,” I reply, taking a bite of my salad. “What are you at?”
“Beating some punks in dogfighting,” she says. “They didn’t heat the curry nachos today!” she exclaims after taking a bite.
“They were stingy with the sausages today too,” Hideki says about his pizza-pancake monstrosity, which takes up a quarter of our table.
Griselda flags down a waiter, and explains, “These nachos are too cold, and the chips are soggy.”
“Can I get some more sausages on mine?” Hideki asks the waiter, who looks similar in age to us.
The waiter apologizes, bows, and takes both plates away.
Griselda notes, “I sometimes think too many of us Germans mistake your politeness for weakness.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was so much disdain in his bow. Don’t you think?”
“Sometimes, a bow can be the ultimate form of disrespect,” I note.
“How can you tell when it is?”
“Depends on the angle and facial expression. Like I could be way down here,” I say, and lower myself. “And I could be making the worst expression, and you’d have no idea.” I raise myself back up and have my face contorted and my tongue sticking out.
“Not sure if you’re being disrespectful or just an idiot,” Hideki says with a laugh. “What you gotta do is let out a small fart when you bow. They might not know you’re being disrespectful. But they’ll smell it.”
Griselda glowers at Hideki. “That is a horrible suggestion. Which is why I’m going to take you up on it next time I have to bow to one of those gaming idiots who challenges me, thinking they can take my money.”
The waiter brings back the food and has added fishcake balls as a token of his apology. Griselda puts her hands together, simpers, and says in as cute a voice as she can muster, “Itadakimasu,” before taking a bite of her nachos, then putting her thumb up in approval.
I honestly don’t know why she always says that before eating. I’ve explained to her our customs are different here versus the main island and that no one says that here in the USJ. Much of our culture, and even many of our expressions, would be unfamiliar in Tokyo, and vice versa. While we’re all members of the Empire, it doesn’t mean we’re a uniform bunch who mimic one another. The citizens in Tokyo are different from those in Taiko City, Vancouver, Dallas Tokai, Sydney, and Los Angeles.
Right after the end of the Great Pacific War, Nakahara, the Minister of Language, believed different languages inherently had within them unique structures of thinking that would give the Empire flexibility and growth that wouldn’t be possible if the local dialects were eliminated. While Japanese is the official imperial language throughout the Empire and required learning, within our governed areas, we are encouraged to speak the local dialect. That’s why we speak English in the USJ.
But Griselda likes to fuse on a whim, picking and choosing what she wants to imitate.
“Is it better?” Hideki asks.
“Definitely crispier,” she replies, taking a loud, scrumptious bite.
Hideki is about to say something but gets a call, a portical game track humming. Based on his immediate pickup and cooing voice, I can tell it’s his girlfriend, Sango. He leaves to talk with her privately. She’s a year older than he and works at a literary bar to pay her bills so she can get another chance at the exams—her scores weren’t high enough to get into the university she wanted the first time around.
“You know what I’m most looking forward to?” Griselda asks me.
I shake my head.
“Home. I haven’t been back to Konigsbarg,” she says, pronouncing Konigsberg with her local accent, “in two years. I miss the veal meatballs. They put in a little touch of white pepper and anchovies. There’s nothing like them anywhere else. You should visit after graduation. I can show you around the city, and we can take a train to Berlin and visit the Adolph Hitler Plaza and the Fuehrer’s Tomb.”
The idea of visiting Hitler’s tomb, knowing all that he’s done against the Empire, isn’t that appealing to me. Before I can respond, Hideki gets back and is all smiles.
“How’s Sango?” I ask.
“I wasn’t talking to her,” he replies. Usually, he’ll elaborate, but he has a cryptic smile.
Griselda says, “Your portical ring is lame.”
“You’re just snobby about game music.”
“Snobby means I’m just saying it to say it. Mahler and Wagner are on a different level from your portical game composers,” Griselda affirms.
“They’re melodramatic, way too long, and put me to sleep every time.”
“What do you think?” Griselda asks me.
“I think I want to listen to some Cat Odyssey tracks,” I reply.
“Why do you despise portical musicians?” Hideki questions her. “They write songs that are moving and memorable.”
Griselda pulls out a chip covered in cheese. “The ‘great despisers are the great reverers,’” she quotes, taking a loud bite. “I revere music, which is why I’m so picky about it.”
They debate for a bit. My mind is on Odyssey. They sense it and release me with a laugh.
I return to late 1940s Los Angeles. Soseki has to make some tough choices. There’s rampant speculation that the American cats are getting desperate and are willing to do anything to defeat the Empire’s cats. I scout Los Angeles for clues about my enemy while getting used to the new cat quadruped controls, which are more complex than in previous games. A part of me wonders if these controls in any way mimic actual quad mechas.
Griselda taps me on the shoulder. “My cousin locked himself out of his apartment, so I’m going to head home. Don’t meow yourself to death.”
“Meow?” I reply.
It’s seven in the morning before I reach the next part of the quest. Hideki picks up a bowl of instant ramen and gets me the spicy seafood flavor I love. My teachers tell me I shouldn’t eat so much ramen because that’s what gives me all my pimples and my belly. But I’d rather be pimply and cart a little extra weight than give up my favorite noodles.
I have only an hour left before I have to head to school. But I want to finish up my current quest. I can catch up on sleep in math since our teacher doesn’t care what we do in class as long as we show up.
I enter an area where humans are blocking off access to restaurant trash. I’m required to defeat them so I can get the goods I need to feed my community. But my opponents are too fast, and I can’t combat them quickly enough. Even my special attacks fail to distract them, and one of the humans knocks me off my feet. They approach with knives and evil grins. I realize they’re going to eat me. I try to escape, but the screen goes blank after I get hit too many times.
“Fifth life over,” the screen tells me. I get nine lives, and as soon as I lose the ninth, I have to create a brand-new profile and surrender my cat soul to portical oblivion.
Hideki yells at me, “You suck, man! Can’t you beat those garbagemen?” He’s been watching my game.
“This part is impossible at my level. I should have powered up more.”
“You were just too slow. You need to work on your finger reflexes. At that speed, they’re going to eat you up for the official simulation.”
It makes me wonder if Rogue199 designed these cat battles with mecha combat in mind.
The special mecha simulation test, also heavily designed by Rogue199, is the exam the Berkeley Military Academy’s board is most interested in. The field test is based on one of our most deadly conflicts, the Dallas Incident of 1972.
Dallas Tokai was under attack by an unknown enemy, and the extent of the conflict was unknown to USJ Command. They sent three quad mechas, thinking it was a local incident. But the Germans had dispatched a legion of their biomechs. Of the three quad mechas that reported, only one returned. That was because the pilot fled the scene while the other two stayed behind to fight as they’d determined it was more important that one escape with the combat data the USJ could use to fight other biomechs. It was an honorable action that was forgiven by command, but she still felt disgraced for leaving her companions behind and put a knife through her throat.
For anyone who takes the test, the performance is judged by a panel. Since the parameters for the test change every time, it’s not so much seeing whether you succeed but rather testing the creativity in the way you respond. I’ve heard there are people who’ve failed to escape but been admitted to the Berkeley Military Academy, which raises my hopes. In the test, I’ll handle the main load of the simulation, though I’m required to bring one person as my wingmate. That person acts as a backup and gets a much simpler setup, which is why I’m relieved to have Hideki. I’ve never met anyone with quicker fingers. Except maybe Griselda. But she’s not allowed since she isn’t part of the Empire, and Hideki would never forgive me if I asked anyone else.
“Hate to break it to you, but there’s no way you’re getting into BEMA if you play that bad,” Hideki tells me.
I know he’s right, and that’s a big reason why I’ve been playing the sims here. But even those are said to be insufficient comparisons to the actual test, as there’s no official way to prepare for it. I sincerely hope that mastering the controls on Cat Odyssey is actually a good way to warm up for the test. “You shouldn’t have tried to fight the humans head-on,” he admonishes me, doing the small head shake he always does when he gets in his lecturing mood.
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Change the battlefield or avoid the fight.”
“My community needed food,” I protest.
“And now you’re dead, so they won’t get it anyway.”
I’m too tired to argue with him, so I nod, and say, “We should get going.”
We’ve avoided corporal punishment for most of the year by being on time to class. Depending on the mood our homeroom teacher is, we can get it really bad or escape with just a few slaps. Hideki took a terrible beating last year when the teacher broke one of his ribs. He had a hard time breathing for half a year, anger in every breath as he swore, “I will get out of here and make them all regret the way they’ve treated us.”
It became the mantra by which he lived.
* * *
• • •
We all wear blue uniforms to school. The boys wear coats, buttoned white shirts, ties, and a whole lot of monotony. Swap out our pants for long skirts, and you have the female uniforms. We do our best to differentiate ourselves with custom straps on our bags and bright bands, but if anyone wears something that diverges too much from the standard, it gets confiscated.
After we arrive at school, we leave our shoes in small lockers and put on slippers. We head to the second floor, where our homeroom is located. Once the school bell rings, we stand up, put our right hands over our hearts, and state in unison: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of Japan and to the Empire for which it stands, one nation under the Emperor, indivisible, with order and justice for all.”
An image of the Emperor in a dragon mask appears as a holograph in front of our classroom. We bow in respect for a full minute after we’ve recited the pledge. We spend another minute mentally thanking the Emperor for all he’s done for our people. A shortened version of the song, “Star Spangled Sun,” plays as tribute to all of those who’ve suffered and still fight to establish the Empire in all its glory. Hakko ichiu is the aim, having all the world under one roof.
Our homeroom class has twenty-eight students. We stay in the same room, and the teachers change with each new class, though there are electives that require some of us to walk to different rooms in the afternoon.
At lunch, Hideki asks what I’m doing. I lift up my portical and point to the commentary on the Imperial Rescript on Education (Kyoiku ni Kansuru Chokugo) for the exams. “Have fun,” he says nonchalantly, joining some of the seniors going off campus for lunch.
Griselda meets with her German contingent, who stick together during the forty-five-minute break. I head for some benches outside, l
ie down, and read the commentary, focused on the middle of the Rescript, discussing the maintenance of the prosperity of the Imperial Throne.
Across from me, also reading, is Noriko Tachibana. She is not only one of the smartest students in our year, but is from a family of prestigious imperial officers. Her grandfather flew Zeros, and both her parents were heroes in our proxy wars in Afghanistan. Noriko is at the top of our class. She also juggles numerous extracurricular activities like ice-skating, at which she is excellent, and is president of half a dozen academic clubs on campus. I’ve always admired her. She is reading a book—something by Fumiko Enchi. Noriko is of African descent, and her grandparents fought for the Empire against the horrors the Nazis were perpetrating.
“Hi, Mac,” she says to me when she notices my gaze.
“Hi, Nori.” I wave at her. She’s in our homeroom, and we’d been previously assigned together on three projects in which she took charge, leading us to get the top score.
“Did you know cats and dogs can see ultraviolet, but humans can’t?”
“I didn’t,” I confess.
“All mecha sensors detect visual wavelengths beyond the human eye,” she says. “Good luck on the test next week.”
“You too,” I say, and feel dumb because she doesn’t need luck—she always gets the highest score.
If she’s annoyed, she doesn’t show it and instead goes back to reading.
Right as lunch ends, an announcement on the speaker system informs us, “Please assemble in the field for an important meeting.”
All two thousand students line up outside, separated by homerooms. As seniors, we’re in the middle section up front. The flag bearer is holding the imperial flag, and the three next to her are carrying our school banner. Up front, the principal is very active, explaining something with overly exaggerated politeness to two officers. They nod in affirmation, and the principal points at us. Eventually, he introduces them on the speaker.
“This is Colonel Kita and Lieutenant Yukimura. They are heroes of the second San Diego Conflict and have honored us with their company.”
Mecha Samurai Empire (A United States of Japan Novel) Page 2
