by S A Asthana
THE FINAL WARS RAGE
The Final Wars Trilogy, Book 2
S.A. ASTHANA
THE FINAL WARS RAGE
Copyright © 2019 by S. A. ASTHANA
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Anya & Ayan
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER 1: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 2: CRONE
CHAPTER 3: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 4: MARIE
CHAPTER 5: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 6: REO
CHAPTER 7: CRONE
CHAPTER 8: MARIE
CHAPTER 9: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 10: CRONE
CHAPTER 11: ALICE
CHAPTER 12: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 13: MARIE
CHAPTER 14: REO
CHAPTER 15: CRONE
CHAPTER 16: REO
CHAPTER 17: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 18: ALICE
CHAPTER 19: REO
CHAPTER 20: MARIE
CHAPTER 21: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 22: MARIE
CHAPTER 23: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 24: ALICE
CHAPTER 25: MARIE
CHAPTER 26: CRONE
CHAPTER 27: BASTIEN
CHAPTER 28: ALICE
CHAPTER 29: BASTIEN
APPENDIX I: THE TRILATERAL TREATY
APPENDIX II: CHRISTIANITY
APPENDIX III: NIPPON ONE (THE SOLAR SYSTEM FACT BOOK)
APPENDIX IV: NIPPONESE MILITARY TECHNOLOGY (ATTACK/DEFENSE)
THE FINAL WARS END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1: BASTIEN
Bastien Lyons triggered the destruction of New Paris, one of man’s last enclaves. This, of course, had been an accident, but it would prove to be costly. The city had burned to the ground like a lone tree in the forest that was human civilization. Embers flew to and fro in a chaotic wind. It was only a matter of time before the surrounding foliage burst into flames and the raging fire swept away in an ever-expanding circle. The entire forest would soon burn to the ground. There was no escaping the coming destruction.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
While Bastien might have cared about the implications, his new persona as Viktor certainly did not. Viktor was a monster, a godless one at that, and not some pious idealist living by outdated rules. Sinful creatures of base desires didn’t concern themselves with consequences, after all. For the past two weeks since he’d arrived in Nippon One, Bastien had to focus on moving onward with his new life in the vibrant lunar city—and finding work. The latter had proven difficult. After only a few days in the massive city it became clear that securing employment wouldn’t be as simple as he hoped. Bastien was a gaijin, after all. Such foreigners and immigrants were second-class inhabitants of the city. The mantra held true in Nippon One — once a gaijin, always a gaijin. Bastien was no exception.
To make matters worse, he had run out of cash within days of his arrival. Rent for his first month, along with crucial expenses — clothes and food, his specialized Menicon Co., Ltd. contact lenses for translating Japanese writing into English, plus a Rion-manufactured hearing aid tucked into his ear canal for translating spoken Japanese into English — had eaten the whole of his budget. The ¥10,000 that the Emperor’s office deposited onto his gaijin card was erased by the everyday. Being broke was the primary driver for trekking into the Kabukicho section of Shinjuku ward. The red-light district served the insatiable human need for skin, but it also housed crime syndicates and their businesses. Bastien was to meet with the famed Yakuza, a tribe of lions amongst the many wolf packs of criminal organizations littering the neighborhood. They certainly didn’t care about ethnicities when employing. Their only concern was the skill to kill.
A voice whispered inside the dark recesses of his mind. “How low can you go?” It was familiar. Belle. He heard the voice rising out of his memories of her several times since his arrival on the moon. “How low can you go?” she repeated. “Keep watching.” Bastien shook his head as if doing so would drive away her voice. He was ravaged by guilt, his brain shackled to weights dragging behind, slowing him down.
“Oh hell,” he whispered to himself through gritted teeth. “Get yourself together, goddammit.”
Kabukicho’s streets were lively despite the late hour. Naked men and women in a front window of a sex shop blew kisses toward Bastien. A chocolate-skinned prostitute cracked a smile at him. Bastien appeared odd with his head and eyebrows shaved but that didn’t stop his rugged good looks and piercing yellow eyes from catching attention. He smiled back at the girl. Behind her tantalizing skin and sparkling smile, a dark world bred in the shadows. Most of those who sold themselves in this district did so against their will. Whether due to debt or marginalization because of their non-Japanese descent, these poor souls now gave away their love in the most lascivious of ways. If there was a god — and Bastien remained doubtful of his presence — he didn’t care much for these lost souls. But several crime syndicates did care, if only to turn a quick profit. They owned the lives of these peddlers of sin, although the Yakuza had a majority share. The organization’s presence was as wide as it was thick in this district, like massive oil spills that once plagued the old world. That was the reason behind substantial keisatsukan presence there. Despite the numbers, the police force’s effectiveness was debatable. The large crowds made it very easy for criminals to slip in and out of the area unnoticed. It was precisely why Bastien loved the neighborhood. He became more comfortable there than anywhere else he’d been in the solar system. It was as if he now belonged only there.
Bastien walked unmasked. No more shawls to cover the face. No more hiding in the shadows. It was liberating, not needing cover. A reprieve from his time down in New Paris. Lieutenant General Bastien Lyons had died in a fiery crash, according to news reports. That meant his facial markers had been purged from lunar criminal databases. The city’s robust Closed Caption Television Cameras posed no threat for they had no markers to match his face against. He could walk with nothing but a grey synthetic-cotton shirt, black jeans and boots, all new and ultra-comfortable. He wasn’t a fugitive on the run anymore. Bastien was just another immigrant trying to make it in Nippon One.
And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling of having a tail. Glances over the shoulder revealed local and gaijin faces, some giddy with excitement, others long at the thought of feeding unbreakable vices. But there were no signs of pursuers. Nonetheless, the uneasiness persisted like the smell of smoked tobacco clinging to clothes.
He lifted a boot over the gutter. “Get a grip,” he muttered. The bag on his shoulder swung in an echo of his step.
Several nightclubs lined the street ahead, one of which was of particular interest — Club Skin. It was the largest, boasting five stories of pounding electronic music and laser light shows. A synthetic material outfitted the exterior walls and changed colors periodically, giving the entire building a psychedelic effect. One minute it was blood red, the next a slimy green. Rows of glass windows showcased professional dancers and their sweaty, glistening skin. Time to earn his money.
He walked up to the entrance, cut to the front of the long line despite scowls and protests from its occupants, and glared at the muscular bouncer. The man shot back a look of menace, his frame a foot taller and wider than Bastien’s.
“Viktor,” the bouncer noted without emotion while keeping his gaze intact.
“Hayato,” Bastien responded similarly. The tension between the two mi
ght as well have been a third person. They were a trio on edge.
Bastien’s voice was steady. “He’s expecting me.” Hayato was huge and capable of real harm, but Bastien remained firm—he’d cut down taller trees than him before. A large bounty hunter who once tailed him through Market Bastille came to mind.
The bouncer waved his hand dismissively as if he was brushing off a fly, but Bastien pressed. “I said he’s expecting me, Hayato. Do you want to disappoint your boss man?” He motioned his head to the duffle bag he now held in his right hand.
The man stared at it briefly. Then he pointed at a companion and instructed her to take over his post. Hayato turned and headed into an alley bordering the club. Bastien followed, his eyes tracking the butcher knife fastened to the end of the man’s long, black ponytail. If Hayato swung his neck, then that ponytail and the weapon at its end could be turned into a centrifugal force to be reckoned with. Bastien had seen the knife decapitate a poor soul in this manner just last week. His heart beat in his ears, betraying his rock veneer.
The alley dead-ended and a rusted, steel door came into view. The bouncer entered a verification code on the entrance keypad and the door slid open automatically. Following his lead, Bastien stepped into a dingy, cast iron elevator, his mind on full alert.
A flickering light bulb allowed him to keep an eye on his muscular companion as the elevator jolted upwards. Hayato stared back with a crunched brow, the straight lines tattooed across his forehead dipping into a V. Something about him beyond that butcher knife made Bastien uncomfortable. He instinctively curled his right hand into a fist.
Hayato appraised the fist. “Always on edge, Viktor.” He lifted a cigarette casually to the corner of his mouth and lit it, his pierced nostrils flaring in the process. “You’d been dead by now if I wanted it.” His face resembled one of the many rats plaguing this city’s alleys. The elevator ground to a halt, and Hayato slid open its rusted mesh door to reveal a dimly-lit, empty hallway. Looking ahead, he instructed, “Keep walking until you—”
“I know the way.” Bastien stepped into the austere hallway, his boots’ soles squeaking against damp carpet. A pungent odor, like that from black mold, slapped across his face.
“He’s not in a great mood,” Hayato called after him, “so don’t piss him off even more.”
Bastien turned to see an impish grin. The bouncer shut the door and Bastien heard the elevator descending. Hayato’s laughter trailed away, mocking Bastien. He ignored it and started walking with his heart still racing. The sight of Isao Tsukasa, the boss man himself, was nerve racking. The Yakuza leader was a legend. The accepted facts were that he’d started off an amateur criminal but then worked his way up in a short amount of time. After murdering the organization’s previous oyabun, he snatched the throne for himself.
Isao had done quite well since then. The legends pegged him as one of the wealthiest humans in the solar system. There were rumors that the Yakuza was deeply entrenched in Nippon One’s politics, which would explain why Isao wasn’t behind bars despite overwhelming evidence against him. Assassinations, especially with political targets, were big business.
Bastien glanced down at the duffel in his hand. Blood soaked its bottom. A brutal brawl in a nightclub bathroom flashed, played quickly as if a movie fast-forwarded. In it, Bastien took down a tall, spindly man with a combination of elbow and knee strikes. Bone against bone. A few of his attacks were deflected, some even countered with punches, but the other guy stood no chance. Bastien was unstoppable in hand-to-hand combat. The entire ordeal had taken less than two minutes, starting with Bastien bursting into the bathroom to catch his target pants down, and ending with him breaking the man’s neck against the edge of a sink.
“How low can you go?” Belle whispered again. He ignored the voice in his head, letting his mind go numb in the face of constant guilt. But he conjured her image standing a bit further down the hallway, her shape translucent like a ghost. The blue hair, the lithe physique, the sad face — it was all present.
Things happen for a reason. One does what is needed to survive. Even herbivores turn carnivorous when desperate. And sometimes gaijins, with their limited options for employment, turn assassins. A few of them prove to be good ones.
“Leave me alone,” Bastien said as he walked past the vision.
“My words hurt?” she shot back, her voice feisty as ever.
“No,” Bastien answered. “They annoy.”
“Oh, it’s like that. I see,” Belle shouted into his back. “I’m not going anywhere, big boy.”
Bastien shrugged and kept walking. “Suit yourself then.” The remorse stuck like a bad habit, no matter how hard Viktor tried to squeeze the life out of it.
The vision of Belle appeared ahead again, this time pointing into a dark room and peering into its shadows. “Well, if I’m going to stay, can you at least tell me who I’m sharing your head with?”
Inside the room, a figure stirred within the darkness. Long, white dreads moved to and fro. “Nobody. Now stop talking to me.”
There was silence. But it was brief.
“I would love to leave, Bas,” Belle called after him. “But you have to let me go.”
Bastien didn’t respond. He moved forward silently to meet the Yakuza boss.
After what seemed like an eternity, Bastien came upon mahogany double doors. They automatically slid open to reveal a swanky conference room dominated by an oval, white-marble desk ringed by dark leather seats. A few spotlights lit the table unevenly end to end. The grey walls surrounding it were empty except for the one facing him. There a large SONY monitor hung prominently at the center. A newscast blared from Nippon One’s city-state sponsored media channel, Shinbun. The destruction of New Paris was being discussed. The topic had been the center of attention twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Nipponese couldn’t get enough of the satellite images. Smokestacks snaking out of the sewer city, onsite photography displaying unimaginable massacre, all splashed out among constant analysis of the attack. The term warmongers had become synonymous with Port Sydney within hours of the news breaking.
As Bastien’s eyes moved across the screen, his nostrils picked up the familiar scent of cherry blossoms. It was a fabricated smell, of course, one created by machines and exuded by vents — the actual flower was long extinct. Despite its synthetic nature, the aroma still retained a calming effect. He figured those flowers once comforted the populace at large in Japan. In their current form they perfumed rooms belonging to the wealthy. Despite their overwhelming presence, Bastien could still pick up the underlying stink of death. This room served as a meeting room at its best, a torture chamber at its worst.
“You’re late, Viktor.” A smooth voice echoed from the table’s opposite end. Something sinister laced the translated Japanese, like a shaving blade hidden within a slab of butter. A chair swiveled slowly to reveal a broad, well-dressed man. Isao sat by the television, the long back of his plush, leather chair masking his presence. His black hair fell uniformly onto his navy-blue coat’s shoulder pads. Sinewy, synthetic tubes stuck out of his nostrils and attached to his throat — augmentations to help boost oxygen consumption or some other biological function. The cyborg boss man smiled, his thin lips parting just enough to show tips of white teeth.
Bastien bowed out of respect. “Greetings, Isao-san. I ran into a few issues… but the job is done.” He spoke in English. It was the solar system’s official language, after all, and Isao most likely not only understood it but also spoke it. Yet, like most Nipponese, he chose not to converse in it.
“You have it then?” Isao asked in his native tongue. He leaned back in the chair all the while toying with a butterfly knife in his heavy left hand.
“Yes, Isao-san,” Bastien responded with a straight face. He reached into his cloth bag and pulled out a decapitated head by its hair as if it was nothing more than a watermelon in a grocery bag. The features were frozen into a perpetual grimace. He walked over to Isao and handed
over the head.
“Excellent.” Isao eyed blood dripping out the severed neck like a young boy inspecting a shiny toy. He stowed the head in a portable icebox to his side with a sly grin. “People should know better than to cross me.” He shook his head. “They really should.”
The boss rapped on the conference table with thick fingers for several seconds, stretching out the silence as if on purpose. It was deafening. Not quite sure how to proceed, Bastien backed away to the other end of the room. Once there, he was informed, “Your money has been deposited into your account.”
The reward would go a long way for Bastien. Three months’ worth of expenses could be covered. And all that had been required was the decapitation of a stranger. As Bastien he might have turned down such an offer, but as Viktor there was no way in hell he would. Monster to the bone. How low? Keep watching, baby.
“Arigatōgozaimashita,” Bastien said, thanking him with a gentle nod. The device in his ear didn’t translate Japanese spoken by the wearer. In this manner, Bastien could hear clearly his own usage of the language, so as to correct pronunciation when needed. A lot of learning and corrections lay ahead. The language had scant commonality with English and French, both byproducts of Latin, a forgotten, ancient language.
Isao swiveled his chair back to the television unceremoniously. The Nipponese emperor, Akiyama Honda, was being interviewed by a group of journalists. “There is talk of World War Four, your highness,” one said. “Whispers of a military draft. We are concerned about one thing — is Nippon One next? What will happen to this great city?”
“The citizenry should not worry,” Akiyama said in his usual baritone, calm and collected. “Our ties with the Martians are strong. I am sure there was reasonable concern on their end to warrant such a large-scale defensive maneuver.”
“It was an invasion!” another journalist interjected.
The Emperor ignored the woman. “We are in close correspondence with the Martians to ensure peace going forward. I am meeting with them in a few hours, in fact.”
