I remember what I was trying to do, think again about Hideki, and send the kikkai burst again, hoping for a different result. Nothing changes, and the Javelins get ready to fire. I brace for death.
Four of the Javelins explode.
None of my scanners work, but has the disruption surge caused them to blow up? The momentary joy is overshadowed by the fact that there are still four more, ready to blow us up. Noriko raises the gunsen to try to deflect as many shots as we can. The Javelins fire.
But just as their shells are about to hit us, something drops from the sky and, using a special shield, deflects all the artillery.
It’s a mecha, one of our own, only it’s a combat Korosu class that’s almost twice our size. Above, eight tilt-rotor aircraft exit after dropping off their cargo. Two other mechas have arrived and are racing toward the enemy. They resemble massive samurais, only with cannons. The Javelins turn their attention away from us to face the bigger threat. But they’re no match as our Korosus dispose of them with graceful ease, slicing them apart with their fusion swords. It’s like watching a ballet of destruction, pirouetting perfectly on every note.
We’ve been saved.
* * *
• • •
The hospital they take me to is somewhere fancy, where doctors check me with unfamiliar machines. They patch up my arm and dip it into a gelatinous vat that numbs the nerves. I pass out a few times. When I’m awake, they feed me, and the food they bring tastes better than anything I’ve had. My favorite is a lotus tempura dipped in a special Santa Monica soy sauce accompanied by garlic-seasoned brown rice. They even have sesame-flavored ice cream in a green-tea wrap.
Multiple officers question me about the battle. I answer to the best of my abilities, but there’s not much I can offer that they don’t already know. I wonder how much trouble I’m in, but no one seems concerned that Noriko and I took the Taka without authorization. I’m more surprised that my arm heals completely with no burn scars. Involuntarily, I think about the exam and the terrorists’ claim that people were experimented on. Was their suffering at all connected with how advanced our medical technology is?
“How is Noriko?” I ask the doctors and officers.
“She’s fine,” they inform me.
I see many friends and family visit Noriko. No one comes to see me.
With my arm healed, I try to spend my free time playing Cat Odyssey. But the game feels different, almost drab compared to the intensity I experienced during our fight. I put it aside after a few attempts and think back on the battle.
A day passes, and Noriko stops by. She’s in a patient’s gown like me. Next to her are her parents, both in uniform, colonels by rank, with the special insignias of mecha pilots. Their name tags read TACHIBANA. I try to stand up and bow, but they force me to lie on the bed.
“Don’t get up,” Noriko’s father insists.
“How are you doing?” Noriko asks me.
“I really like their tempura,” I reply.
The three laugh. “That was an impressive trick you did, jamming the slave signals on the Javelins,” Noriko’s mom tells me.
“So it worked?” I ask, excited to confirm that was what caused their destruction.
“It worked,” they confirm.
I feel so proud, and they sense it, smiling.
“Noriko told me she asked you to evacuate, but you insisted on staying?” her mother asks me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She mentioned there were irregularities with your examination. I’ve asked that they be looked into. It’ll take time, but I intend to get some answers.”
I’m surprised that they’d bother. “Th-th-thank you,” I stammer, genuinely touched.
“You have too much potential not to be given more opportunities. I’ve pulled some strings and gotten you into RAMDET.”
“Excuse me?” RAMDET, or Rapid Mobile Defense Team, is a mecha security force with civilian management even though many of them are ex-military. I should have thought of them as an option, but I hadn’t because I’d wanted to make it directly into the corps.
“The greatest pilot the mecha corps ever had couldn’t walk on her own feet. Everyone dismissed her. But she stuck with it and proved them wrong.”
“Kujira,” I say. Everyone knew about the legendary pilot who defeated squadrons of German biomechs by herself.
“She didn’t make it into the academy at first even though she got one of the best scores on the sim. She went to RAMDET and proved herself there to get her opportunity. It won’t be easy. To be honest, it’ll be one of the toughest things you’ll do. But many of those who make it through get recruited to join the corps.”
I’m stunned by their thoughtfulness. “Th-thank you so much. I—I’m unworthy of your support.”
She touches one of the pins on her lapel, a sakura, and it’s clear there’s some memory associated with it. “We’re all servants of the Emperor and should help each other when we can.”
I try to bow to them. They insist I lie still. After a few more civilities, her parents leave, though Noriko stays behind.
“Thank you,” I say to her.
She shakes her head. “We let the lead get away.”
“What were they after?”
“Brass won’t tell me. Something classified. There’s some secret op going on they won’t talk about, even if we are ‘heroes.’”
“Heroes?”
“That exam the terrorists infiltrated. They were really after the communication relays. The test was just a distraction, and they used the school kikkai connection to disrupt the military lines. If it wasn’t for us, they’d have caused a lot more destruction. The—” Her portical rings, and she picks up the communication, telling the caller, “Could you hold on a minute?” She mutes, says to me, “I got to take this—it’s Berkeley.”
“You’re going?”
She nods. “And I expect you to eventually join me. Let’s talk more later.”
She’s about to leave, but I have to tell her, “You were amazing out there.”
She grins. “I can do better.”
Of that, I have no doubt.
* * *
• • •
It’s all over the news. Two students strike a deadly blow against the NARA. The terrorists aboard the Javelins who didn’t kill themselves were taken captive, to be interrogated by the Tokko. All my fellow students are talking about it and even speak to me in a tone of reverence. I feel strange being in the spotlight.
The Lunar Year starts on February 10, and for Spring Festival, we have a lantern procession at sunset. Every student carries a mando, and we walk through our streets carrying our square lanterns on poles. We’re dressed in kimonos and clogs. It’s an evening to make oaths and wishes for the new year as we make the trek from our school to the Yamagata Shrine, chanting songs to the Emperor. It’s the year of the boar, and I see many with their pig hachikōs and masks. Thousands of balloons are released into the air with text to praise the Emperor. We’re each given the special New Year dishes, osechi-ryōri, in a jubako, which looks almost exactly like a bento box. Masked dancers perform symbolic battles to commemorate our victories in the old Americas and the Soviet Union. Male and female cheerleaders put on traditional makeup to match various Shinto customs. I’m chewing on a daidai, thinking about how frail our small lights are in these lanterns. If the wind is too strong, they’ll blow out. If we move too fast, the fire will die. I hate candle imagery, especially in haikus, as it’s usually just mawkish blabbering. But there’s something poignantly bitter in the recognition that life is as brief and illusory as that little glimmer of light we shine for the Empire.
Once we reach our destination, music fills the air. It’s the “Star Spangled Sun.”
“There you are.”
It’s Griselda, and she’s in a kimono, though she also has
on a swastika armband like the rest of the Germans do. We hug each other.
“I got your message while I was visiting friends in Taiko City,” she says. I hated the way we last parted, and I’d called her in the hopes of seeing her before I left. “And you got accepted into RAMDET! Congratulations. I’m so proud of you. I heard you took out seven Javelins.”
“It was mostly Noriko.”
“Don’t be so modest,” she says. “I read the articles. You both were equally amazing. How are you feeling?”
“To be completely honest, I kind of miss the rush,” I state. “I got to a point where I didn’t care about anything anymore. It felt so liberating not to give a damn.”
“It’s the adrenaline. Hard to come back to normal life after that,” she says, with a familiarity that I’m not sure how to respond to.
“Do you know much about the biomech pilots in Germany? Do they have to take the same tests we do?” I ask her.
“In the Reich, age doesn’t matter, only talent. There are pilots I’ve met who are only thirteen.”
“That’s too much for them to handle mentally, isn’t it?”
“It all depends on the pilot,” she says.
Fireworks start, and the loud bursts sound like cannons. I’m reminded of the battle and am surprised that I feel shell-shocked. It’s both excitement and an eerie fear reminiscent of that moment when I believed I was going to die.
Griselda notices my disturbed trance, and asks, “Do you know much about this song?”
I shake it off and reply, “It’s an American song, written by Francis Scott Key to celebrate their victory over England in the War of 1812.”
“Did you know they actually got the music from a British song called ‘To Anacreon in Heaven’ and just changed the words?” Griselda asks.
“I didn’t,” I reply, and pull on the sleeves of my kimono.
“Your composer, Kumatani, took it from the Americans and wrote new lyrics to call it the ‘Star Spangled Sun.’ Francis Scott Key celebrated freedom in his music, but he was a vigorous advocate for slavery. Kumatani wrote the ultimate song about dying for the Emperor, but he was executed for stealing money from the government’s treasury.”
There are fireworks in the shape of flowers, dragons, and even mechas.
“Happy New Year, Griselda,” I say.
“Happy New Year!” she yells back.
But I have the feeling the forthcoming year won’t be happy for any of us.
QUIET BORDER
1995
SUMMER
04
Time feels interminable when you’re mired in regrets. RAMDET is my diversion.
Thanks to the recommendation of Noriko’s parents, I’ve joined the Rapid Mobile Defense Team (RAMDET) camp outside of Dallas Tokai. All my research has confirmed that it’s what people who want to pilot mechas do when they can’t get into the corps. If I survive basic training for three months, I’ll get to join a quad mecha crew that protects cargo shipments from the German Americas. If I can last in the position for nine months, there’s a strong chance I’ll get to actually pilot the quad mecha. My hope is to do this for a year, get experience driving, study for the exams, and maybe get a second opportunity to enter a military academy. This path is a difficult one, but over the years, there have been several dozen pilots who got their start this way. Even though we’re technically a civilian outfit, we work with the local military, and most of the instructors are ex-military.
RAMDET’s training facilities are bare-bones. There are ten barracks with hardwood floors, no walls, and thin sleeping bags. There are obstacle courses around us, a gun range, and a swimming pool. There’s a mess hall and an administrative building for those in charge. Not a mecha in sight.
First day I arrive, all 118 of us are stripped of our clothes and given training slacks. It’s raining outside. The roads are mud. The instructor doesn’t give us her name and orders us to call her Sensei. She’s bald, wears thick, rectangular shades that cover half her face, and has the brawny muscles of a wrestler. We’re given huge backpacks full of equipment that we’re ordered to strap on. They must weigh close to forty-five kilograms. “Start running!” she orders.
She leads us to a running path around the facility that’s about forty-one kilometers in length. She rides in a jeep, barking over the voice amplifier in her vehicle at anyone who slows down.
“You may have been given the delusion that you’ll get to drive one of our security mechas,” she says. “The quicker you get that idea out of your head, the happier you’ll be. Most of you will quit within the first week, and that’s because happiness is not an emotion you will feel much of on this job.”
It’s less than five minutes, and my shoulders feel like they’re about to cave in. My lungs beg for relief. The rain is pounding down. I want to give up. But I think about Hideki and fight through the pain. Ten minutes later, one of the new recruits stumbles on the mud and lies there facedown, refusing to get up. Sensei stops the jeep, pulls him up, and yells, “Get the hell off my course!”
The recruit, muddy face and all, is barely able to stand. He is forced to run back to the barracks, where he will be given his termination notice. Within thirty minutes, eight others follow him. I don’t even know how I’m standing. After an hour, my legs feel as mushy as the mud. I wish I could set the backpack down. But the two others who did that were kicked out. I don’t know whether I’m hot or cold and feel both simultaneously. Just when I think I can’t run another step, Sensei yells, “Break.”
I collapse on the ground, not caring that I’m covered with mud. One of the other recruits introduces herself as Chieko. She has short, auburn hair and does not look tired at all. Instead, she is the only peppy one, greeting everyone and asking where they’re from. She’s stout, a little over 150 centimeters tall, and has bulky arms. “I’m from Taiko City,” she starts, and wipes her nose. Her cheeks are covered with freckles, and her eyes are a grayish green drowning in grit. “I took the military simulation three times, but my scores weren’t good enough. All my instructors said I didn’t have what it takes, so I came here to prove them wrong. Those tests don’t mean anything to me. I plan on being the best mecha pilot in the United States of Japan.”
Three times means she’s spent three years trying.
Another recruit tells us to call him Wren, and says, “I tried five years straight, but my scores weren’t good enough. My parents told me to give up, but I wanted to at least try.” He’s the tallest one among us, of mixed Brazilian-Mexican descent, and has big, drooping ears.
Sensei doesn’t give the group session long. She has us on the road again. But hearing how those two failed dulls my own sense of failure. I don’t know how I do it, but I survive until the end of the day.
They give us brown rice, miso soup, and tuna rolls in the evening. It’s the best dinner I’ve had in ages. I can’t believe they give us only one serving. This is more of an appetizer than an actual meal. But there are no seconds, and when we’re sent to our barracks, I’m more hungry than I am tired. The sleeping bags barely warm us, and there are twenty of us per unit, which doesn’t give us a whole lot of space. Some of the recruits fall asleep immediately, and one in particular snores like a goat. Not that I’ve heard a goat snore, but I think I’d prefer the goat because he’s so loud. I realize it’s Wren and just when I’m about to do something to wake him, another recruit hits his chest. His snoring ceases but continues after thirty seconds. I focus on the sound of the rain and eventually doze off.
Sleep feels like five minutes, and it’s not enough. My pain in the morning is ten times what I felt at night. At least the weather has cleared up, and it’s actually hot outside. We’re given a light breakfast of a boiled egg and broccoli. Sensei starts off by assembling us in front of our barracks. We all bow to the flag of the rising sun and recite the pledge “to the flag, of the United States of Japan. And to the Emp
ire . . .” Sensei does a roll call. We’ve lost twenty-six.
She gets us running again. No backpack, though, which makes the run more bearable. I’m too tired to think. I don’t even know why I’m moving my feet, and I don’t care. That second day of running somehow becomes five. Anyone who gives up can go home. Even if you fall, if you get right back up, you can keep at it. I am slow, slower than most of the recruits. And I’m always hungry. But by the end of two weeks, my flabby belly has begun to morph into something taut.
My biggest struggle isn’t the exhaustion. It’s the mosquitoes at night. It’s like they aim for me and relish my blood. I wake up, scratching all over. I can hear them buzzing in my ear right as I’m about to sleep. They harass, hound, and hunt me. Chieko laughs at me when she sees me scratching. “Ask Sensei for some cream,” she suggests.
When I do, Sensei gives me cream, which alleviates the itching. But from then on, she calls me, “Cream! Give me twenty push-ups!”
“Cream! Why are you the slowest trainee here?”
“Cream! Toilet duty.”
Bathrooms are a difficult transition. Back at the dormitories, students shared the toilets, but there was basic plumbing. Here, it’s five outdoor stalls around holes in the ground. There are always flies and bugs that congregate. The smell is abhorrent. Cleaning staff is us. Every afternoon, bathroom duty changes. We have to remove the waste via bucket and carry it to a neighboring field, so they can use it as fertilizer to grow the food we eat. The first time I do it, it’s Chieko, Wren, and me. We’re each carrying two buckets full of crap when Wren trips over a rock and spills his load over the ground. Sensei rushes over and commands all three of us, “Put it back into the buckets with your hands!”
“Sorry!” Wren yells, bowing to us after Sensei leaves.
“Her job is to crush our souls, beat us into pulp, grind us up like orange juice, and spit us back out,” Chieko says.
Mecha Samurai Empire (A United States of Japan Novel) Page 9
