Cyber Shogun Revolution

by Peter Tieryas

  “When did you join the Tokko?” Masako asked.

  Bishop didn’t answer her and instead took Goro outside to a side alley.

  “I’m sorry about the arm,” Bishop apologized, as he genuinely felt bad. But he knew violence was the only thing these gangsters responded to. “But it’s still salvageable with regenerative vats. Tell me what I want to know and you can save it. Don’t, I’ll shoot and you won’t even have a stump left. Then I’ll take you back inside and do the same to your right arm.”

  Goro told him everything about the mecha shipments, including the fact that Dr. Metzger would be aboard the plane that was picking the cargo up.

  * * *

  —

  Bishop took a military transit back to Nakajima Airport and contacted Akiko-san four times. There was no answer on any of his calls. He left a brief message recounting what he’d learned. His portical also had a match on the filters he’d placed on S9’s communications, and it relayed an audio message to him that was recorded on an encrypted line.

  “Why are you calling me on the portical?” an upset voice asked. Bishop’s portical ID could not identify the subject.

  “This is an encrypted line,” S9 replied.

  “You sure?”

  “No way anyone can track these messages,” S9 stated, unaware the Tokko had already broken the encryption.

  “What do you want?”

  “I gave the Tokko and army the fake parts you told me to, but once they figure out it’s a trap, they’ll be back.”

  “We know. We’ve already adjusted the plans for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We can talk, but not on a portical.”

  The communication ended at that point. It was confirmation for what Goro had told him. Bishop checked the time and realized he only had half an hour to intercept the Yakuza.

  He called Reiko to warn her, as he felt the stakes were elevated, but her portical was off.

  “Reiko. Bishop here,” he said. “I’ve been following up some leads. Just wanted to give you a heads-up that the shipment you’re tracking might be a fake. I’m at Nakajima Airport tracking additional mecha parts. I’ll contact you again if I have more information.”

  When he got to the airport, he checked the GLS on his portical for the location Goro had pointed out. He ran as fast as he could, and his badge got him past most security doors. His destination was a private airfield on the south side of the airport. He contacted Akiko again, hoping for backup. He was transferred to an operator.

  “Agent Wakana,” the operator said. “Agent Tsukino is not available, but she asked me to relay a message. Do not engage with the Yamamori clan. Investigate cautiously, but withdraw at the first sign of danger.”

  “Tell Agent Tsukino that Dr. Metzger is going to be aboard that plane,” Bishop stated, and disconnected.

  He stepped out of the terminal, spotted a passenger shuttle. He overrode the controls using his Tokko authorization and drove straight toward the plane.

  It wasn’t far and Bishop spotted the jumbo cargo plane. There were forklifts and Labor mechas carrying massive crates aboard. Yakuza members with guns were standing guard. Bishop thought again of all the people who’d been killed by Dr. Metzger’s experiments. He accelerated, intending on ramming into the plane. His shuttle slammed into four of the Yakuza. But just as it was about to crash into the plane, the shuttle came to an abrupt stop. From behind, a Labor mecha had grabbed the shuttle, preventing it from moving. One of the Yakuza tried to break into the shuttle. Bishop took out his pistol and fired at them. Suddenly there was a strong pounding, and he knew the Labor was attacking from above. The roof came crashing down, and the last thing he heard was S9 yelling, “That’s the Tokko agent!”

  III.

  When Bishop woke, he was aboard the plane, tied securely to a chair. There were eight Yakuza pointing rifles at his head. Two soldiers wearing swastika armbands were watching him. Nazis.

  The plane’s engine was a cacophonous buzz that drowned out most other noise. There were four military jeeps in the cargo compartment that smelled of gasoline, a form of fuel the Nazis still used. Multiple stacked crates were filled with contraband, though Bishop could only surmise what was inside. It was cold despite his z-cloak, and everyone present had gloves on. He felt queasy and there was a throbbing pain in his stomach. He didn’t know what was causing it, but he took tabs on everyone present. There were two sealed hatches, and the windows had been removed and plugged. The only escape was the cargo doors, but he didn’t spot any parachutes. There wasn’t much to reassure Bishop of his chances for survival other than the fact that if the Nazis and Yakuza fired their guns inside the cargo hold, they risked depressurizing the plane and killing themselves too.

  “He’s up.”

  A blond German scientist approached, boyish, handsome, with square glasses.

  Bishop recognized him as his target, Dr. Metzger. Now that he was closer, Bishop saw that the man was in his forties. Half his teeth were gold, and there was an arrogance in his impertinent stance that seemed vexed by everything around him. He had thick lips, and there was a port-wine stain that covered part of his left neck.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Metzger asked.

  “Peachy.”

  “How much does the Tokko know?”

  “We know about your Sincerity Lab,” Bishop said.

  “My research there concluded and I left it months ago. What do you know about Operation Jiken?”

  Bishop calculated what the best approach was. The best method was to keep the conversation going so he could better determine his options. “I have no idea what that is unless it has something to do with the Ulfhednar,” Bishop stated honestly.

  Dr. Metzger’s eyes widened. “What do you know about the Ulfhednar?”

  “Only that it has to do with your sick experiments cutting people up.”

  “I do tend to the sick. Even the Reich Command couldn’t understand how important my research was. That’s why instead of my own facility, I’m up here trying to earn money to finance my work. But if you’re not here for Jiken and you don’t know much about the Ulfhednar, why are you here?”

  He preferred the blunt approach. “I was sent here to arrest you.”

  “Arrest me?” Dr. Metzger said. “You flatter me, Agent Wakana. Perhaps you can tell us how you knew about my whereabouts in the first place?”

  Since he’d told the truth before, he hoped a lie would pass muster. “We tracked your encrypted messages.”

  Metzger smiled condescendingly. “Bring them,” he ordered.

  Ichika and Goro were brought out and placed on their knees.

  Metzger held up a gun that looked like it was made out of plastic and bones. “Bioorganic guns are the way of the future,” he said. There was a tube that went through the entire frame of the gun and was filled with a blue liquid.

  Ichika looked at Bishop. Her eyes were narrow beads, pulsing with fear. Goro looked resigned to his fate.

  “They didn’t tell me where you were,” Bishop said. “You can check my portical. I’ll show you the encryption break.”

  “It’s touching that you care, but they knew better.”

  Ichika said to him, “I guess we can’t ever leave this life.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bishop said to her.

  Metzger pulled the trigger twice, one for each victim. Rather than a chemical injection, there was a hissing sound, similar to a steaming plate hitting cold water. The projectiles hit Ichika and Goro in the neck, sizzled, and caused the veins in their faces to bulge, calcify, and increase in weight. Slowly, their cheeks caved in and their foreheads followed. Bishop forced himself to look at the cavity where Ichika’s nose and mouth had been. Her skull was dissolving like an icicle in the Mojave.

  Metzger pointed the gun at Bishop. “I’ll be honest. The Yamamori clan has of
fered me a whole lot of yen if I deliver you to them alive. What’d you do to them?”

  “Yamamori’s son liked to torture people to death, and I knew no one on the force would do anything to stop him. So I made sure he could never do it again,” Bishop replied.

  Metzger clapped. “How brave of you. But I wonder how long that bravery will last under my scalpel. Is there anything useful you can tell me that’s worthwhile enough for me to keep you conscious? Or should we proceed to surgery?”

  “Your shoelaces are untied,” Bishop said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your shoelaces.”

  “You’re a joker.”

  “I mean it.”

  Dr. Metzger looked down and saw that his right shoelace was untied. He signaled one of his underlings to tie it for him.

  “You don’t even know what awaits, do you?” Metzger said with a contemptuous laugh.

  “Your scalpel?”

  “A lot worse.” Metzger raised his gun again, switched the dial, and asked, “Will you give me the access codes to your portical?”

  “Sure,” Bishop replied nonchalantly, which surprised Metzger. “But I should warn you, they change them every four hours.”

  “That’s all I need.”

  The Yakuza guards loosened Bishop’s bindings. Dr. Metzger handed him his own portical back. Bishop accessed the portical with his thumbprint. He directed the kikkai search to a private Tokko link and recited, “Jigoku ni mo shiru bito.” It meant, “Even in hell old acquaintances are welcome.”

  “9355021351344.” He confirmed the auditory password.

  The portical’s visual sphere changed to his private link with contact details in case he was in trouble. Access meant it would trigger alarms with Tokko, which was the plan. That also meant it would change to a masquerade orbit with false information about a variety of topics that would keep the perpetrator busy until other Tokko agents could track them. He didn’t know if that would do him much good up here. Metzger looked at the portical, then at Bishop.

  “You really let me in?”

  “I did,” Bishop replied. It was Tokko protocol to try to appease any captors and avoid torture if possible, since keeping his mind intact meant he could gather more intelligence.

  “Access the files Tokko has on me.”

  Bishop complied and handed it to him.

  Metzger seemed disturbed. “This profile photo is terrible. Can it be changed?”

  “I’d have to file a request with IT,” Bishop answered.

  “There’s so many inaccuracies here, it makes me look sloppy and inefficient. I was not responsible for the sewer contamination of Detroit,” Metzger protested, sounding genuinely offended. “And I had nothing to do with those shitbergs either. Why isn’t there anything about the Ulfhednar?”

  Bishop was trying to see if there was any chance of escape now that his arms were free when suddenly, there was a huge explosion from the back of the cargo hold. The burst of heat was a warm welcome in the cold. There was a small fire, and part of the floor to the lower compartment had a hole. Bishop wondered what the hell was going on.

  He turned to the guard closest to him and punched him in the jaw, felt a reverberation along his elbow. Had to be careful where to hit him in case he hurt his own hand in the process without gloves. As the fist connected and the man spun backward, Bishop felt his opponent’s spit hit him on his cheek. A second Nazi tried to slash at him with a machete. Bishop kicked him in the groin, causing him to drop the weapon. He then backhanded him across the face and elbowed him in the nose. There was always something palpably personal striking someone flesh to flesh, and the moment of impact was communication at its most bare. Facial expressions always stuck with him, from the cleave of a flattened nose to the gape of a mouth being struck. Bishop picked up the machete and held it with both hands. Three more Nazis charged toward him. He slashed his machete across one’s shoulder, wounding him. The next two he deflected with a kick and a slicing swing at one’s leg, causing him to stumble. But then four others came up from behind and grabbed him, forcing him to drop his weapon. They began to punch him repeatedly. This only made Bishop angrier as he wrestled against them, raging and tossing them away.

  He heard gunfire. Someone was firing at the Yakuza and Nazis. But who?

  He turned and saw Metzger aiming his bioorganic gun at him. He was about to launch himself at the doctor when he felt something sharp prick his cheek. Suddenly it was as though his brain was being sucked into a drain, pain imploding to a single point of suction. Disoriented, he couldn’t tell the floor from the ceiling, his fingers from his toes. He blinked and his eyelids weighed a ton, refusing to lift back up again, his corneas interminably long. Darkness was the Earth blinking, or was it the sun taking a bathroom break? Even gods used outhouses, no? He thought he’d fallen to the ground, but became convinced he was dropping from the sky.

  * * *

  —

  Which turned out to be his predicament when he was able to open his eyes again. There was wind blowing in his face. He was being dragged to the aft cargo door. They were still twenty-nine thousand feet in the air, though the cargo plane was descending in a steep decline.

  There was a woman next to him with an oxygen mask covering most of her face, goggles shielding her eyes from turbulence.

  “W-who are you?” Bishop asked, not sure why he was still alive. “Where is everyone?”

  “They’re all dead,” the woman answered.

  Bishop still wasn’t sure how he’d survived and asked, “How am I still alive?”

  “I saved you with a counterinjection that reversed the bioweapon.”

  “T-thank you. Are you Tokko?”

  She laughed.

  Something about her was familiar.

  “Where’s Dr. Metzger?”

  “He numbers among the dead,” she replied.

  Bishop spotted Metzger behind them, a knife in his neck.

  The large crates he’d seen earlier were all gone now as well, replaced with mounds of dead Nazis and Yakuza. Several women in oxygen masks were removing the remaining cargo.

  “You’re Bloody Mary,” Bishop said, recalling his torture at the hands of the Nazis and how he’d finally escaped. “This is the second time you’ve saved my life.”

  “You’re a soldier who keeps his secrets, aren’t you?”

  Did she know what he’d endured for her back at Texarkana? “A soldier who can’t keep a secret is no good to anyone,” he replied.

  “I agree. That’s why you alone will escape to tell them.”

  “Tell them what?”

  “That I see through their tricks and their schemes.”

  “Who?”

  “The Sons of War and this foolish trap.”

  “I don’t know who that is, but why would they want to trick you?”

  “It’s always for power. But they can’t stave off the revolution.” She looked at Bishop intently. “Do you remember your first kill?”

  Bishop remembered the complete mess of a fight that led to his first kill.

  “You do,” she said. “That’s good. Mine was a woman designated as number 489,003. How pathetic to not even deserve a name, just a random number out of hundreds of thousands. She was a Nazi spy working as a receptionist in a pharmaceutical company. I got to her while she was at home, sitting on the toilet. I still remember her expression. Shock, outrage that I was targeting her in the toilet. I had a gun, but when I saw her, I hesitated. She knocked the gun out of my hand. We wrestled. I eventually used the electric toothbrush on the sink and shoved it down her throat, made sure she choked to death on it.”

  Bishop was repulsed at the thought, not even sure how that was possible, as it seemed a toothbrush would be too big to fit down someone’s throat.

  “When I reported back what I’d done,” Bloody Mary continued, �
��my commanding officer reassured me by saying, ‘At least she died with clean teeth.’”

  Bishop thought of his first kill, a Nazi who’d ambushed him. He’d always believed killing a man would be easy, but it took forever when you used only your own hands. He still remembered the way the Nazi had struggled for life, how he kept on flailing about. Even as the breath was escaping him and his face turned dark red, he kept on fighting.

  “You want me to tell them about your first kill?” Bishop asked.

  “I want you to tell them it was me that killed all these Nazis and Yakuza.” The woman lifted up a rocket pack. “There’s your way out.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks for another save,” he said.

  “Consider it a gift from your acquaintance from hell,” she replied, and flung the rocket pack overboard.

  Bishop leaped out, searching for the rocket pack, which was already far below him. He angled himself into a dive pose. The clouds were unwelcoming, a forest of cumulonimbi in his way. There wasn’t any way to die pleasantly from so far up. If he calculated even slightly wrong and overshot the rocket pack, no matter how much he could try to use air resistance, he’d have no chance.

  The layer of clouds thinned as he dropped. His eyes hurt from the air pushing against his pupils. He’d never liked skydiving. When the army ran drills with parachutes, most of his fellow soldiers were exuberant jumping out of a plane. He dreaded the unnecessary risk to his life. But the experience was invaluable, as it steeled his nerves in the present. They’d practiced scenarios like this, and he reminded himself that he was prepared for a hopeless plummet. His first priority was to relax his muscles, making his whole body limber like a cat so that he wouldn’t lose control. Gravity was a current that couldn’t be resisted. Using his hips, he was able to adjust his falling slope and control his angle. Being off by even one degree now meant a huge difference a few seconds later.

  Bishop flattened his arms against his body, kept himself as straight as possible. He could see the rocket pack getting closer. Below was desert, a desolate plain of sand. The rocket pack had straps that were flapping haphazardly to either side, increasing his ratio for error and giving him a bigger target. He thought of Ichika’s imploded face. He had to get back to HQ and report. Bishop extended his arm as the gap decreased. The turbojet cylinders were almost his.