Bishop opened his eyes and looked out the window, unable to sleep, watching the crab mechas from RAMDET that protected transit from West Texarkana Fortress to Dallas Tokai. He went back to watching videos of his niece.
* * *
—
At Dallas, Bishop got off the bullet train at Ida Train Station and headed for the subway.
Every citizen he passed had a profile he could access alongside a summation of their lives that blipped by. He got readouts on economic standings and recent health checks that collated with family history and social strata to determine where any subject would most likely end up and how they’d die. It fascinated him to learn that much of the information was volunteered by the individuals through a portical orbit called SOCIAL. Members posted pictures, thoughts, biographical information, personal beliefs, and could even send private messages that Tokko had access to (detailed filters and searches made it easy to find a subject’s thoughts on any topic they’d discussed, and even deleted posts were accessible in a special category). He knew that the guy standing next to him reeking of alcohol and stinky tofu had been fighting with his wife every night for the past week over his baccarat addiction while ignoring his bloody stool caused by his hemorrhoids. The woman sitting across from him was being chased by debt collectors because she’d borrowed money from multiple loan sharks to pay for extra years of education and was suffering from a urinary tract infection which she couldn’t afford to treat. A couple across from him was holding a shrieking baby. According to official records, this baby did not belong to them, nor were there any medical logs indicating the woman had been pregnant. There were no adoption papers either. In the past week, both had expressed admiration for old American ideals. He tagged them for the local police to check up on. The train stopped. Several hundred people got off and several hundred more got back on. Passengers were cramming into the Japan Rail Dallas Tokai, and Bishop Wakana knew everything on file about them. After joining Tokko, he’d realized privacy no longer existed.
He wondered if it ever had.
The world was strange viewed through numbers and statistics. Everyone was open to him, except for other members of Tokko, certain government officials, and those provided special exemptions. Current military members displayed limited information, mostly public data about deployment status and history, rank, awards, etc. He’d always been careful with his portical transactions, to the point where he’d been accused of paranoia by the other members of his platoon. Now, being able to scan anyone’s personal messages dating as far back as portical records were kept, he was glad he’d been so cautious.
Stuck between a thousand profiles, he felt compressed in both the physical space and the mental one. So many people were barely keeping afloat, living from paycheck to paycheck. He knew their problems (financial statements and medical history), their desires (portical search records), their friends and enemies (branching message links that showed a tree of their closest connections), and the anesthetic they used to dull the pain (game time, film habits, literary pursuits, and Cyber Bubble programs).
Something must have been faulty with the air conditioner because it was very hot. Bishop wiped away the sweat forming on his brow. His ears instinctively perked up when the automated voice came on and informed them in Japanese and English that they were arriving at his stop in downtown Dallas. He followed the endless blur of faces that vanished as quickly as they had been there.
There was a stretch of downtown on the east exit of the stop that many considered disreputable. Bishop saw tents for the homeless and groups of the poor huddling in doorstops of buildings destroyed by a Nazi attack over a year ago. Some of these people had profiles that registered on his portical, men and women who’d had middle-class lives but, through circumstance, lost everything. A woman held up a sign that read “I’m a new mom and don’t have enough to feed my son. Can you please spare some yen?”
On his portical view, he brought up an older image of the east exit before the Nazi attack. This used to be a nice part of town. That hollowed structure was once the site of his favorite curry pastrami sandwich shop. That series of columns leading nowhere used to be a hospital. Bishop flipped off the past images and made his way to his destination.
* * *
—
Four mechas were stationed near City Hall, on guard against any suspicious activity. Government officers and military personnel had the heaviest presence near the administrative buildings, many of which were undergoing reconstruction after Yamaoka’s ascension. There were massive ads for Gen Igarashi’s popular new art gallery, Tanaka-chan the Immortal Space Dog. There were also ubiquitous ads for the new condominiums that would be finished with construction in the next year and promised armored walls to protect against a Nazi attack.
Governor Yamaoka’s Dallas office was full of gloriously old samurai armor. Bishop greeted the receptionist and said, “I’m supposed to meet someone from the office.”
The receptionist checked her portical and replied, “You can wait in the seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
The chair looked like it had a huge cushion, but when he sat down, he found it hard and uncomfortable. He stood back up and went to look at the display with numerous awards and medals the governor had received.
“Bishop. It’s been forever.”
Bishop turned around and was surprised to see his former high school classmate, Reiko Morikawa. Her profile came up blank. Was she the army representative?
“Reiko?” he called, surprised by her presence. “I’m honored you remember me.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly.” Reiko had long hair that was so dark, the purple almost looked black. She wore a thin black coat that reached down to her knees.
They had been in the same homeroom and had often gotten into vocal debates about politics. They’d hung out on a class trip to Hokkaido and the main island, where Bishop had acted as culinary guide. Even back then, he had a passion for cooking exotic dishes and serving them up to his friends. Reiko had a discerning palate and often gave the best suggestions. Over the next few years, they’d sent each other messages and chatted from time to time over SOCIAL about food and restaurant recommendations before drifting apart.
“What are you doing here?” Bishop asked, wondering if Agent Tsukino had known they were acquainted.
“I used to be one of the general’s adjutants,” she replied. Which was one of the most prestigious positions to have and would explain why her profile was private. “I never thought of you as a Tokko agent.”
“Me neither. You piloting mechas?”
“I have a Katamari. But I haven’t been able to drive her as much as I’d like to have. I’ve been working with the governor to revamp the curriculum for mecha piloting. How are things in the Tokko?” Reiko asked.
“I’m waiting for them to lock me up and tell me it was all part of one of their tests, which I failed,” Bishop confessed.
“I didn’t know thought police could suffer imposter syndrome.”
“It’s why I’m so good at sniffing out imposters.”
She grinned. “So how did you get into Tokko?”
“What do you mean?”
“In high school, I pictured you as a chef making weird sushi,” Reiko explained.
“I made you some of my weird rolls, didn’t I?”
“I never knew that fried chicken and tater tots worked so well with sushi rice and wasabi.”
“If I remember correctly, the first thing you told me was that it looked awful,” Bishop said.
“It did. But it was tasty.”
“I have a secret ingredient that helps it blend together,” Bishop explained.
“What secret ingredient?”
“I wouldn’t be a good Tokko agent if I didn’t keep my secrets.”
“So you’re not going to tell me how you got in?” Reiko asked.
“Le
t’s just say my past service and sacrifice didn’t go unnoticed.”
Reiko grinned. “Fair enough. I read the reports Colonel Tsukino sent me. You think this Dr. Metzger is trafficking guns?”
Bishop nodded. “I’m hoping we can find proof of it with the shipment at Nakajima Airport.”
“Let’s go.”
“Subway or taxi?”
Reiko shook her head. “Mecha.”
* * *
—
Bishop had never been in a Katamari-class mecha. When he thought about it, he hadn’t been in many of the newer mechas. These were smaller, more agile, and good for skipping traffic. The Inago had its wheels out and was zipping through the city on the rails.
Its bridge was smaller than he’d thought it was going to be from the outside. There was just enough space for Reiko’s piloting seat, a navigator, and munitions. A door in the face allowed the Inago to connect with other mechas, and the emergency locker held two rocket packs. Bishop took the navigator’s spot.
“You know how to use the navigation panel?” Reiko asked.
In the rocket pack legions, which were basically aerial infantry, he’d learned the basics of navigation. Everyone had to as an emergency backup in case of injuries to crew members.
He explained as much and added a caveat: “I’m rusty since it’s been a few years, but it’ll come back to me.”
“Which mecha were you assigned to?” Reiko inquired.
“I was part of the Djangos which were deployed out of the Syren, piloted by Lieutenant Lina Niijima.”
“She was two classes ahead of me, but a damn good pilot. You were in good hands.”
“I don’t know about that,” Bishop replied.
“You didn’t like her?”
“Not a matter of like or not. Her priority was to herself, not us.”
“Should it have been you?”
Bishop shrugged. “We had different ideas of priorities,” he snapped, angrier than he’d intended.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”
“No need to be sorry,” Bishop said. He got back to the navigation console, trying to recall what did what.
“Don’t push that,” Reiko said when he was about to click a button.
“What’s it do?”
“Self-destruct the mecha.”
“Really?”
“With the wrong combination, yes.”
Bishop moved his hand away. “You ever fight in this thing?”
“Only once in real combat.”
“How’d it go?”
She looked disturbed by the question. “The Inago performed well, but there’s a lot about her I’ve learned since then,” she finally answered. “If we got into another scrap, we’d do much better.”
“I could swear what that really means is ‘not well.’”
Reiko laughed. “She’s still in one piece and I’m still alive. I can’t ask for more.”
“True that.”
From this height, he could see the skyscrapers of Dallas Tokai jutting like spikes in a toy capital. Life stumbled through its chaotic procession, and downtown had been undergoing a massive change in the infrastructure, a whole upper tier built in the past decade. The outer periphery was becoming more militarized in light of all the conflict in the Quiet Border. Nuclear bunkers were being constructed in major residential areas. The vault complexes were said to be elaborate and quite cushy, depending on the price range you went for.
Big ads with nationalistic slogans were everywhere, starkly painted in contrasting colors to delineate right and wrong. “Love the Emperor with All Your Heart and Mind.” “When in Doubt, Report It.” “Never Forget Kansas,” which went hand in hand with “7.02.1996.”
They arrived at Nakajima Airport in less than twenty minutes. There were two Anubis mechas on the periphery. A single Sentry-class mecha was near the rear, though it appeared inactive. After getting permission from security, they parked in the military section and climbed down the ladder to ground level (unlike the bigger mechas, there was no platform elevator on the Katamari in order to save space and energy). Several technicians met them below, asking Reiko if the Inago needed any maintenance.
Reiko stayed in her pilot suit as they went through the station, though she did change her shoes to something more comfortable. Bishop changed his z-cloak to a poncho and shorts.
“That’s a weird combo,” Reiko commented. “You still have thin ankles and oversized calves.”
Bishop looked at Reiko, not sure how to reply as he’d never noticed that about himself.
“Just trying to blend in,” he finally explained.
“By sticking out?”
Bishop changed to regular slacks and a coat.
“Better?” he asked.
“Don’t be so sensitive,” she said with a laugh.
An army official met them. “S9,” Reiko addressed him. “Thanks for flagging this for us.”
“You’re the Tokko agent?” S9 asked Bishop, not overtly hostile, but not pleased to see him either. Many in the army considered Tokko the enemy.
“I am,” Bishop affirmed. “What’d you find?”
“We found weapons inside a shipment that was supposed to be hundreds of stuffed guinea pigs being sent to a taxidermist.”
“Can you show us?” Bishop asked.
“That’s why I’m here.”
Bishop checked S9’s record and saw that he had a distant cousin who’d been arrested by the Tokko last year, interrogated over some statements against the Empire he’d made on a session of the game Cat Odyssey. He’d been cleared, but lost his job and became shunned by many of his social contacts in the process. No wonder S9 seemed unhappy.
Bishop dismissed all portical profiles throughout his trek. They were too distracting. There were intermittent reminders over the speakers to “report all suspicious behavior. Vigilance is the key to safety!” They walked past multiple terminals, and Reiko pointed at some of the airport art. “Those paintings are amazing. They’re by my favorite artist, Rona L, so vivid and graphic.”
Bishop recalled how Reiko had taken him to several art galleries in Kauai, explaining what made each artist unique. “I’ll definitely look her up.”
“Maybe it’s better if thought police refrained from looking into specific artists.”
“You have the wrong idea about Tokko.”
“They arrested two of my favorite artists last year.”
“For what?”
“Art against humanity.”
At first, he thought she was joking, but then realized from her intent gesture that she wasn’t. He’d have to look it up later. Or maybe Reiko would have preferred he didn’t.
They entered a cargo hold. There were rows of crates, medium-sized Labor-class mechas helping move them. S9 led them to four crates filled with hundreds of guinea pigs.
Reiko looked inside, removed the guinea pigs, and loosened a hatch. There were guns. But there were also chips and machinery he could not identify.
“Where’s this shipment headed?” Reiko asked S9.
“This was heading to Los Angeles. What is that?”
“This is a KLGOF-9921, an essential component for a mecha BP generator,” Reiko replied. “Expensive, and difficult to access for nonmilitary.”
That surprised Bishop. “Why would Nazis be sending mecha parts here?”
“Good question,” Reiko replied.
“Who checked it in?” Bishop asked S9.
“The manifest says it was a group called the Animal Rights Activists of Atlanta, represented by a Mr. Frank Lenthauser. We haven’t detained him yet, per your request, Captain,” he said to Reiko. “But we’re keeping close tabs on him.”
Just by his name, Bishop knew Lenthauser was from the German Americas. After the Pacific War, everyone in the Empire was requ
ired to take on a Japanese name to integrate them into the system (though most people had a nickname in their native country’s language). In the Reich, people were required by law to keep their original family names to make certain their ethnicity was never mistaken and to keep them separate from the pure Aryans.
“Can you excuse us?” Reiko asked S9.
“If there’s any business related to the cargo, I need to be informed.”
“Understood,” she replied.
S9 was unhappy about leaving, but Reiko insisted.
“What’s the next step?” she asked.
“We seize it and send it in for forensics. They’ll inform us about the contents. We’ll interrogate this Mr. Lenthauser and get the information we need.”
“Really?” Reiko questioned dubiously.
“What?”
“I doubt Lenthauser even knows what he’s carrying,” Reiko said. “I have a different proposal.”
“Shoot.”
“Take one of the chips for yourself, send it back to Tokko forensics. Let the rest go through. Follow Lenthauser until delivery in Los Angeles. Find whoever is on the other side and pick them up.”
He liked the idea, but then thought of what Akiko might say. “I have to report this.”
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t you need to get clearance?” Bishop inquired.
“I have full discretionary authority in this. If your boss says no, I’ll manage on my own.”
Bishop contacted Akiko and informed him of Reiko’s plan.
“What are your thoughts on this?” she asked.
“I think it’s worth the risk.”
“This is an army plan. Leave it in their hands. Secure as many of the mecha components as you can, then report back to headquarters.”
“But, ma’am, I think this is a solid lead. If I could be permitted to just go along—”
Cyber Shogun Revolution Page 6
