The Final Wars Rage

by S A Asthana

  “Figured you’d ask. When I was training with the Rogu Collective during my exile, Greg came onboard towards the end. He and the doctor found overlapping similarities and interests in regards to their understanding of this field. I found it all fascinating and volunteered to be their test subject — it was the least I could do, given all the Collective had done for me.”

  She took another pause as if to gather her digital thoughts. Then she continued, “The physical me was implanted with a chip directly inside the brain. Dr. Bala had performed several cyborfication surgeries in the past. This one was a minor task for him. The chip scanned and mapped the salient features of my brain over the course of months and then copied, transferred, and stored the information directly into this supercomputer. My memories, desires, ambitions — everything was uploaded in real-time right until the moment I died.”

  “So, there were two versions of you until your death?”

  “Actually, this copy remained dormant till that time. Once the biological me perished, this copy activated.”

  “I see. So, you’re technically two weeks old.”

  “I suppose. My age is not relevant any longer.”

  Bastien paced the room, peering into dark crevices between servers, squinting at the lines of code streaming down terminals — it was all foreign and might as well have been written in kanji script.

  > import delta_class

  > import x23 as np

  > class Network(object 13):

  > def_init(self, sizes):

  > self.num_layers = len(sizes)

  > self.sizes = sizes

  > def feedforward(self, a):

  “This is you now, Belle,” he said more to himself than her. The code was her blood, the machinery her organs, the network wiring her veins.

  “Yes, this is me now, Bas.”

  There was a calm in her tone, almost machine-like but still human. It soothed him some. The guilt gave way, albeit momentarily. She’d lived after all. With the glow of terminals lighting up his face, Bastien caressed a cold screen gently with his fingertips. He sighed. Silence once again punctured the conversation. Bastien shut his eyes. Was there any way he would see her again?

  Belle cut through the quiet. “Is my sister still alive?” Her tone was all business.

  “Yes. She’s here in Nippon One.”

  “Tell me everything. What happened after my death, Bas? I’m sure it will not be a pretty story, but I still need to hear it from you.”

  Shrugging, Bastien said, “There’s not much to tell yet. New Paris is destroyed. All of it gone. Whoever the Martians didn’t destroy, one of the green fogs did.” The corners of his eyes were wet. When was the last time he’d had a good cry?

  “Green fogs? One got in?”

  “I don’t think anyone besides me and Marie made it out.”

  There was silence. Could Belle process human emotions the same in her new state, or would the ones and zeros not allow it? “So, my sister is still alive.”

  “Yes,” Bastien responded. “I handed her over to Emperor Akiyama’s son. She’s with the royal family. Akiyama is protecting her.”

  “Then it will all end badly,” Belle said with urgency in her voice. “There is a 99.1 percent likelihood of war if Marie continues to live. Her being alive and protected by the royal family breaks the Trilateral Treaty. The High Council will never stand for it.”

  The conversation travelled to a predictable conclusion. It was like chatting with Alice all over again. “You’re pretty exact with that percentage.”

  “Of course.” Her voice oscillated to a higher pitch as if out of excitement. “I have the processing power of this supercomputer plus a few other cloud-based systems I’ve managed to hack into within this city. I can run millions of models in parallel, analyzing several tributaries of logic in real-time as opposed to following a single, sequential line of reasoning. I can run circles around my physical self, as far as computational mathematics is concerned.”

  Bastien flashed a faint smile. Belle was clearly eyeing the silver lining. He heard himself say, “Look for the positive in the negative.”

  “The percentage is actually closer to 99.2 if I round up,” Belle continued. She sounded as if she was pushing something — like large amounts of data and computational outputs throughout her processors. “So, you will understand when I say Marie—”

  “Needs to die,” Bastien finished.

  “Exactly. The Trilateral Treaty cannot be broken, but right now, that is exactly what is happening. The only way this situation doesn’t end in disaster for humanity is if Marie is killed and the High Council continues to believe she died in Operation Liberate New Paris. Before she was a just threat to New Paris. Now, her being alive is a threat to the entire solar system.”

  Bastien took a deep breath and something clicked — there was no denying the responsibility sitting on his shoulders. With back hunched, head down, he conceded, “And I’m the man who can kill her.” A computer screen displayed waterfalling code syntax against a deep blackness. Belle was in there somewhere swimming within the dark. He imagined her at the bottom of a murky ocean, amongst bioluminescent creatures constructed of bits and bytes. “I must complete what you asked of me back in the bunker. Maybe this time I can fix what I couldn’t before. I owe you this much.”

  Belle’s voice was soft and pixelated. “You owe nothing to me, Bas.”

  “Yes, I do. I… it’s all my…” Bastien fumbled with the words. Guilt burned his insides, no matter how hard his Viktor self-tried suppressing it.

  “You shouldn’t feel responsible for New Paris… or for me. It was all a series of unfortunate events.”

  Bastien waved the comfort away with his hand and pressed. “Look, I’ll do it. I’ll kill Marie.” Redemption was the primary driver. A fallen man’s second chance. Perhaps a gift? A faint voice whispered in his mind. “Remember Acts three nineteen, my son, from the King James version. Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord.” The voice belonged to the old dreadlocked man. Father Paul, persisting despite Bastien’s best efforts.

  The data center’s door banged open and Dr. Bala rushed in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we need you out here, Bas.”

  Bastien followed him out to the main room. “What the…” An unexpected sight greeted him — Alice stood alert with gun drawn. Hani had hers pointed back at her. Hani glanced over the shoulder at Bastien and asked with a grimace, “Friend of yours?”

  “Alice!” Bastien shouted, wide eyed. “What are you doing here?”

  Pointing her gun from one thief to the next she said, “You think I’d lose sight of you?”

  Bastien rushed to the middle of the stand-off and urged, “Okay. Guns down. Please.”

  Guns remained trained at their targets.

  “Écoute moi! I said guns down,” Bastien pressed, his French accent on full display.

  This time the weapons were lowered. Alice kept her eyes locked on Hani.

  Hani returned the favor. She spat, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to knock, bitch?”

  Alice shot back a viper gaze. “I was born in a petri dish, so… no.”

  “What?” Hani tilted her head in confusion.

  “Enough!” Bastien commanded. Turning to Alice, he said, “I know why you’re here.”

  “I can’t take no for an answer on this one. I’m sorry, but I need you to commit to my ask.”

  “How did she get past the keypad?” someone asked.

  “She’s not one to be held back by passcodes.” Bastien’s jaw clenched. He locked eyes with Alice and said, “Alright, I’m in. I’ll kill Marie. But I need you to get me in touch with Reo.”

  Alice asked with one eyebrow raised, “The emperor’s son?”

  “The Martian congregation just met with the royal family — it’s all over the news. I know you were part of that Martian group. You can get me in touch with Reo.”

  Hi
s path to redemption had been found. Travelling it was easier said than done, although Bastien had an idea how to move forward. The right vehicle was required.

  CHAPTER 6: REO

  The briefing conference room was hidden deep inside the royal penthouse. Ten by ten feet, it was accessible only by way of a secret passage. Three wooden chairs encircled a round table — simple necessities. White walls meant for image and video projections to facilitate dialogues of upmost secrecy enclosed the space. Serious and grim, the room represented well the conversations that took place within.

  As Akiyama and Etsuji took their seats, Reo placed a tiny, square device on the table. He spoke in Japanese, “Project file 002.” A lone light beam shot to the wall and displayed the image of a text-heavy document. Its title read, “Security Brief, September 29th, 2209.”

  “Before we begin,” Akiyama bellowed, “I want to know what you’re doing to ensure Marie, or any other geisha, does not interrupt our private quarters.” His voice was stern.

  Head down, Reo replied, “The two guards on duty have been reprimanded and replaced. It will not occur again.” The memory of them being permanently relieved of duty pierced his mind. At only age eighteen, he had to constantly prove his worth for the high post of Chief of Police. Such security lapses didn’t help.

  Akiyama nodded and kept his stare pinned on the youngest.

  Reo bowed and took a seat. He started in his native tongue, “Our security brief today begins with the highlight of an existing problem that has become much more pronounced since the fall of New Paris.”

  “The Yakuza,” Etsuji said. “The thorn in our side.”

  Reo nodded. “Yes, them, but also their many competitors. Since the destruction of New Paris, the euphoria trade has become problematic. Now that the cheap source, cheapest of them all, is gone, local crime syndicates want to acquire local sources. There are a couple of manufacturing plants over in the Kabukicho district garnering attention from these syndicates.”

  “The problem seems contained then, little samurai,” Etsuji noted. “Kabukicho is home to both the manufacturing plants, as well as the Yakuza and the like. The turf wars will happen within the district and not necessarily anywhere else.”

  “Yes, brother.” Reo pointed to a picture now projected on the wall. “This is Ryu Tanaka. He was killed this week and we think Isao Tsukasa was behind it. So, the wars are already raging.”

  “Then why not let them play out?” Etsuji leaned on his elbows on the table. “Why not just let them finish each other off?”

  “You suggest we stay out of these wars?” When Etsuji nodded, Reo raised his brow. “Don’t we want to uphold order? Don’t we want to ensure the citizenry sees laws upheld, even in the filthiest neighborhoods?”

  Etsuji flashed a sun bright smile. “You are naïve, little samurai, you and your Bushidō code.”

  “How so?” Reo crossed his arms.

  “You don’t see the forest for the trees. We shouldn’t get involved because it will cause Nipponese fatalities. Our soldiers and police officers will surely incur losses. Why? Just to quell a bunch of low life criminals, and to save the lives of unwanted gaijin. None of it is worth our efforts.”

  “So, you propose we sit back and let the turf wars play out then?”

  “Yes. Let the filth eat itself. One less Yakuza, one less brown, black or white skinned gaijin won’t harm us.”

  Reo searched the tabletop as if for answers. “Father?”

  The patriarch stared firmly at nothing. Was he even listening? He’d seemed distracted in recent conversations, as if ready to hand over the reins. But formalities and protocols required adherence. The passing of the throne had to come at the end of next month and not a second before. The Nipponese fiscal year started in November. In this state-capitalistic society, royal transitions needed to align with financial statements to ensure smooth business continuity and the least amount of disruption to Tōshō, the city’s stock exchange. Reo sighed and asked again, “Father, your thoughts?”

  Akiyama responded with coughs which stretched for several seconds. He finally said, “Normally, I would agree one hundred percent with Etsuji on this. But… I see an opportunity.” Both sons blinked blankly. “Let the Yakuza and whomever else fight it out. We should not intervene. But we should fold those manufacturing plants into our state-owned infrastructure.” Akiyama took a deep breath and continued, “We need to have majority stake in producing euphoria going forward now that New Paris is gone. We ourselves can corner the market for this drug. The criminals can be happy with the scraps.”

  “But then would they turn their guns on us?” Etsuji protested.

  Akiyama raised a hand. “They will not, because we will guarantee them a percentage of the profit.” A rare display of self-satisfaction — a wry smile, crossed his beard. “And profits will be plenty. Those profits Marie once enjoyed at my citizens’ expense, we will now enjoy. Once the manufacturing plants are in our control, we can subsidize their production off of taxes and keep the drug price exactly the same as it was when euphoria was produced in New Paris. The demand remains the same, as do the profits. A win for everyone involved.”

  A true chess master. Father always saw ten steps ahead. Was bringing Marie here part of a broader plan?

  “Sell all of the euphoria confiscated from Marie,” Akiyama instructed. “Then, use the money to acquire the manufacturing plants. Use force if needed. We need to move fast, because we do not want to be put in a situation where the criminals get it first. We have to fight them then. It would be too much noise. The journalists would have our heads, especially Ayumi Ota. Do it quickly and silently.”

  Reo squirmed. So much for upholding honor. Bushidō — tenets of days long gone. The royal family hadn’t been squeaky clean in the past, sure, but this direction was a new low. Taking over the drug trade to get its own citizens high, and in some cases overdose, was moving the bar ever lower. The destruction of New Paris 238,900 miles away sent ripples throughout the solar system. Honor structures were compromised.

  “I will make it happen, father,” Reo said.

  Etsuji interrupted, “I do have a question before we move forward.”

  The interjection surely was about the elephant in the room — Marie. There was no doubt. The sons disagreed with their father’s decision to house and protect her. She was a liability. Reo’s neck muscles tightened. How far would the conversation go?

  “Father, I do not understand the decision to bring Marie here,” Etsuji started. “If found out, we expose ourselves to Martian diplomatic doom. And—”

  “Stop!” Akiyama boomed. The room warmed as if a sun had burned right through its walls. Turning to his eldest, the emperor said, “I am still in charge. Do not question my ways.” He might as well have slapped Etsuji. “I brought her here. She stays. There will be no further discussion.”

  The sons stared down — grown men reprimanded. Hierarchical decisions weren’t meant to be questioned, after all.

  Several breaths later, Akiyama motioned with his hand for Reo to continue, all the while casting judgment at Etsuji from the corner of his eyes. The youngest said, “Next topic of discussion is increased chatter between various pirate fleets. Our intelligence agency is reporting communication between three specific fleets — the Gemini, the Yellowjackets, and the Barbary pirates — has gone up by a thousand percent since New Paris’ destruction.”

  Akiyama nodded. “To be expected. Their euphoria source is gone. No more looting narcotics from water cargo hauling ships to sell to our people means little money to sustain the pirate ships and crews. They are converging on what to focus on next, most likely. Taking revenge on the Martians seems a good next step as any.”

  Was there anything the man couldn’t see beforehand? Probably not. He’d experienced so much in his long life. “Yes,” Reo confirmed. “The three fleets plan to join hands and launch an organized attack on Port Sydney. Timing is unclear, but the intent has been noted.”

  “Organized
pirates?” Akiyama coughed a few times. “Their secondhand technology will not stand a chance.”

  “Perhaps,” Reo said.

  Akiyama’s brow crinkled. “Have you notified the Martians? Does Frank know?”

  “Not yet. I just found out myself only hours back.”

  Akiyama cracked his knuckles. “Okay, then you shou—” He broke into a fit of coughs. Etsuji patted his back.

  “I am fine.” Akiyama waved away his sons’ concerns. “But I should retire. Is there anything else to brief?”

  “Just the matter of the Titan mission.”

  “Oh, Reo, why must you keep bringing up old news?” Akiyama stood. “I’ll be in the library. You can brief your brother about the rest.” Seconds later, he’d exited the small room.

  The door shut, locking in silence with the brothers glaring at one another. Etsuji rolled up his white dress shirt’s sleeves, exposing thick forearms and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his black pants. “Why do you keep bringing up the Titan mission, little samurai?” He laughed as he brought a cigarette to his mouth and lit it. “The old man’s mind can’t even hold necessary information as it is.” He was looser now that father had departed. It was always this way. Prim and proper in front of the emperor, but relaxed and indifferent behind his back. “He should have given me the throne a long time back.”

  “Well, you’ll be getting it in a month,” Reo said, his tone curt. “No more waiting.”

  “Yes.” Etsuji blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. “And then I’ll have to put up with your Titan mission briefings.” He laughed again. “Perhaps it was kidnapped by green, little aliens? Or maybe colorful unicorns stole it at the edges of the solar system?”

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious of whatever came of it? It was meant to be a fourth colony. There were a hundred Nipponese citizens aboard.”

  “No, because I already know it failed.” Etsuji offered his sibling a cigarette but Reo declined. “Come on, don’t be so boring. Take one.”