by Saul Garnell
Kim huffed out loud and reengaged Thomas in a low turgid voice. “Do you think we can speak with him again?”
“Who? Shiro?”
Kim nodded imperceptibly.
“Maybe, but only Kamiyoshi can make contact, and then only if he wants to speak with us. He’s been on his own for so many years now. No telling what state of mind he’s in.”
Kim nodded with interest as the primary turbines spun up. The Martin Luther King Junior began to taxi toward the runway as both men silently focused their attention on the status monitors. Since cutout viewports were considered inferior design, the cabin’s large virtual screens provided a panoramic view of the exterior. They watched intently as the runway came into view and huge volumes of technical flight data began continuously updating in translucent overlay columns.
Taking off with standard jet turbines, the ascent was quite uneventful until their altitude reached sixty thousand feet. That’s when ramjets kicked in and took the craft up to Mach six. At higher altitudes standard rockets would engage, but that would be only a fleeting burst before reentry was achieved.
Watching dark space slowly replace the deep cobalt blue atmosphere, both men relaxed. Within two hours they would arrive at Japan’s Sado Island Spaceport and the purpose of their trip would begin in earnest.
However, relaxation dissipated as a sudden harsh shudder rocked the plane. Both men felt it and they looked at each other fearfully.
“What was that?” Kim sputtered.
Thomas hit the steward call buttons on his seat controls. “I’m not sure. Check the flight...”
Before he could finish, the cabin went berserk. A blitzkrieg of emergency scrollers began slithering across their view in red and yellow hues. Simultaneously a top-down view of the spaceplane’s fuselage appeared on their monitors. Both ramjets pulsed red as system failure data rapidly scrolled by.
Desperately clutching their restraint harnesses, Thomas and Kim looked on in disbelief. The plane began to descend erratically, and gravity ebbed in and out from under them. Then they rocked violently. The plane’s computer system attempted to correct attitude as both men lurched into their body harnesses. Finally, some semblance of normality returned as jerking motions hammered them into a stabilizing lull.
Punching his call button to no avail, Thomas cursed several times. Kim looked on in horror. Fearing the worst, both riveted their eyes on the flexi wall. The Chief Purser’s image finally appeared. Bedraggled and stripped of plumed cap, he stared back at them, clearly in a controlled state of panic.
“I need everyone’s attention. We must get to the escape pods!” he said, looking gravely into his fixed camera. “Please make your way in an orderly...”
The purser’s face jolted out of view as the plane shook hard. A few moments passed before he clambered back into view. Pushing disheveled blond hair back into place, he again began stuttering the text from his nearby prompter.
“Uhm...yes, puh...please make orderly way to the stern escape po...”
A second, more violent lurch sent the purser clear out of sight. His image was replaced with an emergency scroller that displayed the intended text. Clearly, he would not be coming back.
Kim and Nagel looked at each other grimly. Staring back at their seat monitors, the top-down map indicated their assigned pod toward the stern. Thomas pointed to the image as his other hand began unfastening his seat buckles.
“Let’s get out of here,” Thomas said tersely.
Kim nodded and tore at his harness buckles. Unstrapped, the two opened their private cabin door and were immediately inundated with the sounds and smells of the chaotic main cabin. Passengers were frantic. Everyone fought their way toward the stern, yanking themselves against the pull of gravity and momentum. It was an increasingly difficult task as the plane listed heavily to one side. The craft shuddered violently. Gravity dropped away at times, allowing free fall to take effect. Many passengers cried out fearfully as they attempted to re-plant their feet. Others simply held on, their faces contorted with physical strain.
Both Kim and Nagel methodically grabbed nearby handholds and waited until some gravity returned. It did so with a vengeance. Still, they continued astern while time allowed. Pulling themselves along, they followed emergency scrollers, which mechanically directed them to go on.
Amid all the chaos, time slowed. Every second passed in agony, and it was a huge relief when they found their designated pod. Automated instructions blared out step by step what to do. It wasn’t difficult, but everyone’s attention battled against mind-numbing anxiety.
Following commands, Kim pulled hard on a large wall level. Pneumatics then took over and hissed loudly as the hatch unfolded. It was then a simple matter of getting into a restraining harness and locking down to initiate the ejection sequence. Having fought off all the physical stress, hope briefly emerged as the pod’s launch countdown blazed red throughout the pod’s interior.
Kim looked at Thomas, still quite worried. His voice was strained. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Both men watched unwaveringly as the ten-second countdown passed by in millisecond increments. It took what seemed like ages, but the timer eventually hit zero. Then...
Nothing.
Kim could not understand. He stared at Thomas, who was dumbfounded as well. The number simply read zero. There were no separation charges, no indication that they could escape the ship’s spiral downward.
Thomas looked at the monitor near his arm. Reading over the vibrations and noise, he saw a long list of technical errors scroll by.
One stood out.
“Failure to disengage lavatory valve system?” Thomas questioned aloud.
“What’s happening?” Kim asked angrily. “Why don’t we eject?”
Thomas gazed back smiling. Oblivious to their dire situation, he began to laugh.
Kim angered and began to scream. “What is it? Why are you laughing?”
“He knows,” Thomas said, still grinning.
“What?” said Kim, utterly confounded. “Who knows?”
“Our entire plan,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “Probably from the very beginning.”
Slowly Kim realized what Thomas was alluding to. A look of surprised horror crept over Kim’s face as he nodded with grave realization.
“Shiro!” Kim rasped.
There was no more to say about it. Both men sat helplessly watching gauges that displayed a rapidly decreasing altitude. The ground soon came within range and replaced the landscape view provided by internal monitors. Screens altered from cyan blue to brownish earth. Then, within microseconds, the Martin Luther King Junior plunged deep into the New Mexican desert. The resulting explosion sent a plume of debris several kilometers into the air. Accompanied by a thunderous clap, ominous booms echoed in every direction for several hundred kilometers.
It was a small distance compared to the global impact the spaceplane’s destruction would eventually have.
Sado Island Japan: 1964
Tasting Room, Ceylon Tea Importers
“Then the plane crashed,” Orlando said, while pouring a cup of steamy Darjeeling, “and upon impact my body was burned beyond all recognition. I died right there on the spot!”
Lieutenant Trent of the U.S. Navy smirked. “Well, if you ask me, you look pretty good for a dead man.”
Well past his prime, Orlando Mazzotta laughed politely. Sitting down in an old wicker chair, he stirred two solid lumps of sugar into his tea. He grinned to himself, and then continued his tale as he peeked over old spectacles.
“No doubt my reincarnation was quite miraculous,” Orlando jested.
Lieutenant Trent of the US Navy took another sip from his cup and smiled. Having come to Sado Island on vacation, he was happy to find Orlando Mazzotta’s Ceylon tea shop. Unlike anything near the Naval Base in Yokoska, the shop was well stocked and offered a comfortable place to sit on a cold rainy day.
And though remote, the shop’s most fascinating characte
ristic was Orlando Mazzotta himself. The mysterious sole proprietor spoke the King’s English and exhibited an upbringing quite out of place in Japan. With light olive skin and strong facial features, the old man’s acquaintance sparked great interest with the Lieutenant.
“Hey, if you don’t mind,” Trent went on, “I still don’t get how you came to Sado Island, here in the Sea of Japan. You say you’re some kinda refugee from...Hindustan? That’s present-day India, right?”
“Quite right,” Orlando sniffed behind his fine china cup.
“But that name of yours, Orlando Mazzotta, would sort of indicate that you’re...Italian?”
Orlando cleared his throat. “A name increasingly used after my rebirth. Previously I was a Hindu and used other names. But my dear friends would often call me Netaji.”
Trent spoke no Hindi and found himself unable to follow. He cocked his head inquisitively.
“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Orlando said while pouring more tea. “What do you know of India’s history? In particular, of what happened toward the end of the Second World War?”
Trent smiled sheepishly. “Well, to be honest, I wasn’t aware anything happened. My military education concentrated on the fall of Berlin followed by the bombing of Japan.”
Smiling furtively, Orlando nodded. “Yes, it would seem that those events, quite historic no doubt, have suppressed the history of Azad Hind’s strive for independence, when India daringly attacked the British with an army of over fifty thousand. Are you familiar with Azad Hind, Lieutenant? You might remember it as the Provisional Government of Free India.”
“India attacking the British?” Trent guffawed. “I thought they were on England’s side during the war. You provided logistical support and stuff like that.”
“Quite true,” Orlando agreed. “But India was also in the final stages of rebellion, ready to throw off the yoke of British tyranny.”
Bemused by the notion, Trent put down his cup. “Yoke of British tyranny? Come on! You can’t mean India was rooting for the Nazis. Hitler was a ruthless dictator.”
Pausing in mid drink, Orlando smiled painfully. The comment did not anger him, but for the sake of history Orlando felt compelled to set the record straight.
Looking thoughtfully over his specs, he began. “Lieutenant, have you ever been inside Burma’s Mandalay Prison for any period of time?”
“Uhm...no, I can’t say that I have.”
“Then you have not watched men bake under the sun in small cells until they die of thirst, hunger, and disease?”
“No.”
“Or perhaps watched a man beg for his life as he was truncheoned to death?”
“I’m real sorry,” Trent stated uncomfortably. “I stay down in engine rooms all day at Yokoska. To be honest, I’ve never seen that sort of thing.”
Smiling, Orlando picked up his cup and took a long, drawn-out sip. Placing the cup carefully on the table, he leaned back in his wicker chair. Quite old, it crackled loudly under his weight.
“‘That sort of thing’?” Orlando repeated, widening his eyes. “Admittedly, I find that quite interesting coming from a person with military experience. But I don’t wish to be rude. Your generation without a doubt is quite civil. But do allow me to say the following. If one could have seen the cruelty inflicted upon the Indian people, one might have trouble distinguishing Britain from any other dictatorship. Men dying unjustly are ambivalent, be their jailer Nazi or king.”
Trent stirred in his seat. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“Not at all!” scoffed Orlando, shooing away the air. “I have no such memories. They all perished during reincarnation. The man who sits before you is free of all untoward thoughts.”
“I see.” Trent followed along. “But your previous, uhm, embodiment was really in the middle of things. I can only imagine the people he met.”
“Yes, quite true,” Orlando said, reminiscing to himself. “There were, of course, the unprecedented meetings with Hitler and Mussolini.” Orlando paused to refresh Trent’s cup. “Would you like lemon or milk with your tea?”
“Wha?” the Lieutenant gasped. “Say again?”
“Lemon or milk?”
“Oh, lemon, thanks. Uhm, but you mentioned a meeting with Hitler and Mussolini! That really happened?”
Orlando nonchalantly placed lemon in Trent’s cup. “Yes, well, those were strange times, when it was hoped that serpent venom would have a medicinal effect toward the cause of freedom.”
“That’s incredible!” Trent spurted.
“But Tojo was indeed altogether different. A strong meticulous leader, quite unlike European dictators. And, of course, his dedication to the liberation of India was admirable.”
Trent held his tea cup in hand, but paid it no attention. “Let me get this straight. You met...sorry, I mean your past embodiment met with Tojo? Why?”
Orlando nodded and sat down again with a fresh cup. He put out some sugar biscuits and sweetened his tea with liberal amounts of sugar. Sitting back quite relaxed, Orlando reminisced while looking outside. Storm clouds were gathering and the sky began to darken.
“It’s as I mentioned earlier,” Orlando said. “The Japanese recognized the value of Azad Hind, and fought next to the Indian National Army of fifty thousand. The strategy was to gain a toehold within India and start a national rebellion. The campaign failed, though. Most died. What was left of both armies retreated into Burma, or committed seppuku as was the case for many Japanese. A horrific sacrifice in the name of India’s freedom.”
Orlando noticed that the Lieutenant hadn’t touched his biscuits. Trent just gazed back in disbelief. Holding his cup stiffly, he waited for Orlando to complete the tale.
Orlando sighed and went on. “But as horrific as those events were twenty years ago, I would now have to say that we fought the wrong enemy. After much deliberation, I realize now it wasn’t the British, really.”
“The Nazis and Japs, you mean,” Trent interjected.
Lightning flashed briefly in the shop’s window. Both men looked outside as thunder rumbled in the distance.
Turning back slowly, Orlando shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. For two decades now, I have had nothing else to do but consider the past. And I have come to a rather bizarre conclusion: that no single country was the true enemy. Instead, we were fighting an entity that was much more diabolical and evil in nature.
Puzzled, Trent shook his head. “An entity?”
“Technology! We were fighting technology.”
Trent was confused. Unable to follow Orlando’s line of thinking, he looked bewildered and grimaced.
“Please hear me out,” Orlando urged with one palm extended. “Even after independence, India has not fared well. Many had hopes. But she is still enslaved, suffering from poverty, bloodshed, starvation, illiteracy, and corruption! Though independent, India retains many of the ills seen under British rule. And one must, you see, question why this is.”
“Let me guess,” Trent offered, unsure. “Technology?”
“Precisely,” Orlando said, rubbing his eye. “After much contemplation it became apparent that India was the victim of fundamental systems: socialism, industrialization, warfare, and even the caste system. Each in turn can be broken down into smaller units. But all consist of technologies, or techniques if you will, in one form or another. And though each component promised benefits, it seems that their application comes with a price, a terrible price that both subjugates and enslaves.”
Lieutenant Trent said nothing. He looked on with interest, but clearly didn’t understand fully the meaning of Orlando’s discourse. A new tack was required.
“You know, Lieutenant,” Orlando said, waving a hand casually, “many years ago, the young rebel leader Subhas Chandra Bose would recite poetry to his young followers, words of wisdom that offered hope in a world filled with darkness. Since his death, I have modified one of his poems to make my point. It goes something like this.”
Sitting back in the wicker chair, Orlando closed his eyes. The poem came forth like a song. Without music, it caressed the air and everything it touched.
If you want the fragrance of the full-blown rose?
You must risk the thorns.
If you want to witness all the first rays of dawn?
You must brave the night.
But if you want the solace of technology?
You must mind its toll.
For it will be freedom, liberty, happiness
And the sanctity of your soul.
Looking on with compassion, Trent sighed. “Wow, Orlando. I don’t understand poetry all that much. But it sure sounded nice.”
Orlando refilled their cups with a smile. “Enjoy, Lieutenant. Sometimes small pleasures like tea and biscuits are all we have when skies are dark and gloomy.”
Outside the shop, torrential rain came down in sheets. Lightning crackled nearby, and was soon accompanied by thunderous rumbling in the distance, ominous booms which echoed in every direction.
Sumeet sat fitfully at Shinkei-Kenkyu’s office for over a full day before coming to the realization that he needed a distraction, anything that would take his mind off of all his troubles. The layoff, Hiral, the com-plex – all had to be forced aside at any cost. And it was with grudging reluctance that he gave Ganesh’s request serious attention. Digging out his emails, he studied all the information provided to him. There were a number of step-by-step instructions on how to proceed. Anyone could do this, he soon realized. But so what? The audit offered mental diversion. Thank God for that.
Unfolding the data port in his virtual room, several high-level components detached themselves and came to rest in a tiled stack. There were some documentation handles to study and he spent time reading through them, understanding how the data was originally archived.
Inside the archive there were genetic algorithms, flexi PCB diagrams, and manufacturing plans of all types. However, he soon realized that most of it was too specialized for him to understand. It really didn’t matter, though. Expert systems and Sentients would do all of the grunt work. So he began by running broad search algorithms as instructed. The approach was to separate out the data more likely to be of value, and provide the results back to Ganesh’s team.
