Mecha Samurai Empire (A United States of Japan Novel)

by Peter Tieryas

  Clarence laughs. “It’s not that easy,” he says, and continues taunting me. I ignore him.

  Speed is the Crab’s strength, but right now I don’t have much of it. I have only one option left to me. I race toward the FDR. Before it can fully block me, I crash into it, seizing its hips with my claws. I want to unleash artillery, but it takes me a few clicks before I find a way to fire on the portical. It’s not functioning. That last blast must have screwed up the wiring. I take a measured breath and activate the self-destruct, but that fails as well. I repeat the self-destruct command and this time it appears to execute successfully. But it doesn’t trigger the BPG.

  I release his hip and start pounding on the FDR’s side with my legs. The FDR has an arm guard it raises to deflect the attack. We exchange fists, but his mecha is much stronger than my Crab. He pushes me away, then lifts his foot and stomps me from above. My legs buckle, causing the Crab to be pressed flat on the ground.

  “This fight is making me hungry for crab,” Clarence says, as his mecha batters my side. “They used to have a place in Los Angeles, great Alaskan King crab legs with their special Cajun sauce. It’d give me diarrhea, but it was worth it. I almost wish I could go back to L.A. just so I can have some again.” He grabs one of my legs, then hammers on it with an actual hammer. I look toward Chieko’s Crab tank, but it’s still not moving. The FDR yanks my fourth leg out, and Clarence asks, “You think it’s worth the risk to try to go back and eat there?”

  I close my eyes, breathe in through my nose. I am ready for death. But I won’t die without taking him with me.

  I check the diagnostics on the heat gun. There’s just enough power in the tank to shoot once. But I don’t know if that’s enough. Can Chieko’s tank help? I don’t know her condition, so I go to the communicator and send a message. There’s no reply from Poet. I sync with her Crab’s portical, and, as with the last tank, I can’t take over her movement. But I have access to her weapons. I search for the heat gun, find it, and aim at the FDR.

  “Even if you beat me, our mechas will destroy you,” I reply to him for the first time.

  “You don’t see the battle?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask him as I furtively aim at the FDR’s back.

  “You don’t realize the balance of power has shifted.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  The heat cannon fires from Chieko’s Crab tank. The FDR detects the discharge and attempts to withdraw. I use that moment to prop my Crab back up and clutch his foot. He’s stuck in place, and when the wave hits him, it blows away half the FDR’s head as well as its right arm. At the same time, I rotate my Crab’s heat gun, aim it toward the center of the FDR’s chest, and fire. My tank shuts down, completely enervated. The visual feed is dead. I rush to the opening in the tank and look at the FDR. There’s now a hole through its center, power draining out. From the back, Clarence ejects out of the FDR. He’s missing his arm and is leaking blood.

  Minimal power returns to the Crab, but when I try to move, I realize I’m tangled with the FDR. He’s locked us together. The scanners pick up an unusual surge from the American mecha. I try to detect the source, but the portical can’t figure it out. But it does relay a countdown.

  A self-destruct on the FDR.

  I look over at Spider, Olympia, and Wren one last time. I should die here with them. But Clarence is still alive. I climb out of the hole, clamber down one of the Crab’s legs, and jump down. I run as fast as I can. Clarence gets picked up by a Javelin, which drops a ladder for him. He climbs up, and the Javelin moves quickly to a safe distance. Behind me, the self-destruct activates and blows up both vehicles. The shock wave hurtles me several meters away, and I eat dirt, rocks scraping against my face until everything goes black.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s a long struggle back to consciousness. But the discordant clash of chemical plates grating against an unnatural bone structure wakes me. I look up and see the biomech looming over me. It is holding the heads of the two Sentry mechas it fought, one of which is the Fuka. I try to stand, but my feet aren’t working. I pull backward, even though I know it’s hopeless. I can’t believe it destroyed all three Sentry mechas. That shock overwhelms even my fear of death. I have no chance.

  At the same time, I’ve suffered what feels like ten near deaths in the last few hours. I didn’t get Clarence, but I destroyed his mecha. If this is it, I accept the end. I did my best, and I failed.

  The biomech’s skin looks reptilian in some parts and insectoid in others, the heavily segmented darkness that pulses with red tissue occasionally visible. If it takes a step forward and stomps me, I’d die a painful, but quick, death. The face is hard to decipher, the nose morphing into a chin and a visorlike slab where its eyes would be. I glance over at the Fuka and wonder what this portends for the Empire.

  I don’t try to flee anymore. I sit upright, posed for the type of harakiri I’ve seen in the games depicting old times.

  But the monster doesn’t fire. I know it sees me. Is it trying to make it worse by teasing me with the hope of escape? I won’t run, not when it’s so obvious I have no chance. Better to die here with dignity. My wait doesn’t last long as the biomech does the one thing I never expected it to do. It turns around and begins moving away.

  What in the world just happened? How am I still alive?

  I stand even though my legs are shaking. I do my best to calm my nerves.

  I rush to Chieko’s Crab, climb the ladder, then bang on the hatch. There’s no answer. I twist it open and climb in. Poet is holding a dagger.

  “Cream!” he shouts in relief.

  “Where’s Chieko?”

  He points to the corner. Chieko is lying there, badly hurt and unconscious.

  “The missile attack knocked her out,” Poet says.

  “Why didn’t you reply to my messages?”

  “I had to play dead in case you didn’t make it,” Poet replies.

  “Why didn’t you try to escape?”

  “I never got good enough to pilot this thing by myself.”

  He looks like a different person, and there’s something about the fear in his eyes that I empathize with. I put on the goggles, gloves, take the seat, which calibrates around me. I consolidate the navigation back to the pilot’s interface and chart the coordinates for Dallas. The Crab is in good shape. Auto-kinematics for now as my hands are too tired otherwise.

  What remains of the train is still on fire. I speed past it, climb up the hills to the side of the tracks. The remains of three massive mechas have toppled over, all of them missing their heads.

  “I’m getting a message,” Poet says.

  “From the Germans?”

  “It’s from a mecha survivor. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

  It’s not far from our current location. I make my way around the leg of one of the fallen mechas, see how the armor has been torn away. The bottom half of the haramaki-dō has been shredded, and all the internal circuitry is exposed.

  There are two survivors on the surface. I approach quickly, drop the ladder. They board. One of them is Orwell, the bastard who branded me with the swastika symbol. The other is a major; her arm is in a makeshift sling and looks broken. Both of their faces are covered with dirt and blood.

  “Who are you?” the major asks. Like many mecha pilots, her hair is cut very short, and her brows are shaved. She is calm and seems expressionless as she talks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s your name?”

  I almost answer Cream as it’s been my designation for so long. “Makoto Fujimoto, ma’am,” I reply.

  “I’m Mori Aramata,” Poet answers in turn, which surprises me, only because I hadn’t known his real name.

  “Stand to address the major,” Orwell commands both of us.

  If Orwell recognizes me from befo
re, he doesn’t indicate as much. Then again, I have these huge goggles on my face. My initial sense of animosity alleviates as I realize that the swastika he branded me with got me the momentary distraction that serendipitously saved my life. There is an irony that I’m saving his life in return without his being aware of how he saved mine.

  “Forget ceremony. Thank you for rescuing us. I’m Etsuko Mizukami,” the major says. “That’s Orwell. We need to return to Dallas and inform them of what’s happened here.”

  I don’t need her urging. I’m already rushing away. But as I do, I have to ask her: “Did you know our train was going to be attacked?”

  “It’s not your place to question the major!” Orwell snaps.

  “It’s fine,” the major says to Orwell. “You’re not part of the corps. And you want an answer. I would too. The truth is, we weren’t sure, but we were anticipating an attack.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d heard rumors about a new type of German biomech, and we wanted to see it ourselves. We had no idea how powerful it was or that we’d lose control of the situation.”

  “We’re RAMDET trainees, ma’am,” I remind her. “We weren’t soldiers.”

  “That’s what made you a more attractive target.”

  So they did know, and we were sacrificed in their pursuit of data. I want to throw them both off, but, I realize, they’re just following orders too.

  It’s all flatland as far as I can see. The terrain is optimal for escape but provides no cover of any sort. I get only five kilometers away before something pops up in my rear scans. From the size and speed, I assume they’re Javelins.

  “Everything okay?” the major asks.

  “There are a couple of Javelins in pursuit,” I reply.

  “It’s dishonorable for a soldier to run from a battle,” Orwell states.

  “Good thing I’m not a soldier,” I reply, incredulous that he has the nerve to talk to me about honor.

  “What’d you say?”

  “You heard me. You have no right to talk to me about honor, not after what you did to me. You have an issue, you can get the hell off.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “You probably don’t even remember since you and your buddies attacked me in the middle of the night like the cowards you are.”

  “Get up,” Orwell orders.

  I do, take off my goggles. His eyes widen. “If I hadn’t seen so many people die today, I’d kick your ass off,” I tell him. “Sit down and shut up, or I swear, I will throw you out.”

  “Orwell!” the major shouts. “Do you know how to drive this Crab mecha?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then sit down and remain quiet. Our lives are in Makoto-san’s hands.”

  Orwell reluctantly complies.

  “Forgive us,” the major apologizes, and I realize by her bow she doesn’t just mean Orwell’s words.

  I take my seat again, put on my goggles. The Javelins shouldn’t be able to match our speed. But the three indicators on my scans are catching up fast. They are relentless in their pursuit, but they’re still not fast enough for the Crab—which might explain why they’re firing surface-to-surface missiles (SSM) at us.

  There’s no way I’m going to dodge them, and the electronic countermeasures aren’t very effective. I aim the cannons at the SSMs, try to auto-aim. I get locks and fire. The first volley of three missiles gets destroyed. But the fourth one eludes my defensive shots and is about to hit. I release a chaff cluster, hoping it’ll muddle the last missile. Fortunately, it does, and the missile explodes in the ground instead of the tank. At that moment, the front leg hits a big boulder, causing the Crab’s motion to stutter. Autobalance fixes the step, and I turn back to driving, but I know why the position of pilot and gunnery are normally split apart. It’s hard to attack and drive at the same time.

  I can’t determine how many missiles they have left. But if they have a lot more, it’s going to be tough to fend them off. Their combined forces strafe me. Though the plain makes it easy to run, I also don’t have any protection. I have to run in a zigzag pattern so that I’m not too easy a target for their cannons. But that also slows us down.

  I check navigation and scour the vicinity for somewhere I can either hide or take cover. I’m also piloting while checking the status of our rear armoring to make sure it doesn’t get too weak, firing shots whenever I can. I jump through the maps, but I need help.

  “Poet. Can you go to nav and find some hills for me?”

  “Our nav is busted.”

  “I can help,” the major says, and uses the emergency periscope. “You think we can’t outrun them?”

  She already knows what I’m thinking. “No,” I answer.

  A minute later, she says, “About eight kilometers west of here, there’s a patch that looks like it might work.”

  I change course and race toward it.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” a voice says over the communicator. It’s Clarence again.

  “I didn’t want to overstay my welcome,” I reply.

  “You can’t leave without paying the bill. Do you know how long I spent putting the FDR together?” Clarence asks. “Three years. Scavenged, pirated, and stole parts from thirty mecha to get my beauty together. And you just destroyed him. What an ungrateful guest you are.”

  The hills the major found provide cover and, more important, a space where I can fight without being surrounded by all three. Also, they can’t snipe at me from afar. Right as I arrive, the mechas I mistakenly thought were Javelins are on me. They’re actually American mechas, each wielding a different weapon. The one with the painted name of Fillmore holds up a gigantic chain saw. Another called the Belmont has a charged whip. The third of the bunch, which has the name of Spencer marked in blue, has a hooked claw that it fires. Like the FDR, they’re chimera mechas, clumped together over time from different units so that there isn’t any design unity. There are many strange protrusions from parts that just don’t fit but were put into place solely for functionality.

  The Fillmore attacks first, lifting its chain saw. Just as the chain saw is about to cut into my shoulder, I lift my arm up, timing it to grab and deflect the Fillmore’s wrist. It tries to attack again, but I block its arm, then use the natural momentum to pull it into the Belmont. The Belmont tries to parry with its whip, but the chain saw rips through it to the chest plate. I scurry around the Fillmore and give it a little bump on its feet, causing it to fall even more and assault the Belmont.

  “Naughty naughty,” I hear from Clarence.

  Just then, the Spencer fires its hooked claw onto one of my legs. It pulls, causing that leg to straighten and the whole tank to crash forward. I have no choice but to release that limb, separating it from the body. With five legs, I recover my pose and rush toward the Spencer. The Fillmore has removed the chain saw from the Belmont’s chest. It tries to attack me, but I make what I realize is a foolhardy move and jump onto the Spencer’s leg. I doubt it can support our weight, but I use the speed to wrap around the Spencer’s back and use it as a shield against the chain saw. The Fillmore leaps to the side and is about to attack me. I release my hold on the Spencer and actually allow myself to fall backward. We’re strapped into our seats, and before the hull can crash into the ground, I flip the legs so they catch us upside down. The chain saw slams into the Spencer’s side, carving a huge gap into it.

  I will not die today. Not at their hands. Not after surviving the biomech and every adversity the world could throw at me. My rage, my stubborn insistence on victory, is doing something to my senses. It’s almost like time has slowed down. The NARA are pantomiming their moves, and I know what they’re going to do before they do it.

  The Fillmore causes more destruction for his companions than for us because I can anticipate its actions. With its companions more or less debilitated, I know it’s tim
e to dispose of the Fillmore. But just as I’m about to engage the Fillmore, the Belmont and Spencer attack it in savage, close-quarter combat. They are frustrated that their attacks are hitting one another rather than me and have turned on one another.

  It’s time to make our escape. But not without a finishing blow. I have to keep my word to Chieko.

  I move the Crab to a safe distance, flip the bridge back to its normal angle, then aim the heat gun. I carefully set up the projection so that it’ll hit all three in a row. I fire, and the tank shuts down for a few seconds. When the energy returns, I see that all three chimeras have stopped moving, massive damage impairing them. I get ready to fire again, but one of the mechas explodes, blowing up the other two as well.

  “That was magnificent,” Major Mizukami tells me. “And efficient.”

  “Thank you,” I say to her. I plot the course to Dallas again. I am relieved that I could avenge Wren. But I don’t let my guard down until we reach Dallas.

  Fortunately, it’s an uneventful trek back. None of us talk. I check my aft cameras continually, afraid the NARA will send another force.

  They don’t.

  The hours feel like one long minute stretched into repetition. I feel the Crab’s every step, sense every shift in the terrain. I’ve become one with it, and even though we have only five legs, I push us faster than what we were doing earlier with six legs.

  As soon as I see the wall surrounding Dallas Tokai, I slow the Crab. Exhaustion and relief take over. But it’s short-lived as another part of me can’t believe we’re safe. I’m convinced the German biomech will come after us. Why else did the biomech let me go? Maybe this is part of their trap too. Poet communicates with Dallas, and the major identifies herself, asking for medical support. Rear cameras still don’t register any enemies. I try not to think about all the dead bodies or that it’s Botan’s dried blood on my hands.

  I startle when the major puts her hand on my shoulder.