We don’t greet each other as he storms away. I message him at night, apologizing again. But he doesn’t answer me.
* * *
• • •
I spend the next three days studying. Hideki doesn’t call me the whole time. Griselda sends me a few messages, wishing me luck on the exam. I laugh at a stupid image she sends of the two of us posing near the Phantasy singers. Math starts to dissolve into physics and chemistry. Charlemagne, Augustus Caesar, and Nobunaga get mixed up, as do their battle details. I read the history of the “Star Spangled Sun,” how it used to be an American song called the “Star Spangled Banner” written by a man named Francis Scott Key, different from the American author Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald wrote a book called The Great Gatsby about the failure of the American system in the aftermath of the Great Depression. Even he knew the end was coming.
I watch the footage Hideki has given me from someone who has taken the simulation. It’s illuminating. There’s the tester and his wingmate, who is more of a reconnaissance specialist, just like in real life. Because it’s a smaller quad mecha, there isn’t the traditional crew of a driver, gunner, communications officer, munitions loader, and engineer. One pilot handles all those duties, and weapons are limited because the mecha’s expertise is stealth and exploration. It has two rear turrets and a swappable set of guns in front that the gunner controls.
They’re outside the old remains of Dallas. Reports pour in about an attack by a mysterious enemy. In the case of this specific tester, he follows history and orders the wing to stay put while he makes his escape. He handles the quad mecha with agility and flexibility, maneuvering his way to safety.
Very little is known about modern biomechs. The older ones were amorphous beasts with adaptive skin that resembled layers of melting clay transforming across their structure. They were supposed to be “alive” in the sense that they could regenerate their own flesh, adjust to different types of artillery, and be a new type of superhuman. The result was less successful once our mechas used chemical incinerators to acidify their flesh and cause it all to rot off, leaving only the metallic skeleton.
All this studying makes me miss Griselda. The only good excuse I can think of to call her is, “Can I join you on your run tomorrow morning?”
“Are you really coming?” she asks in glee.
Next day, I meet her at the school track. Seven other Germans are with her, clad in black running suits and red swastika armbands. They walk upright, perfect posture. It makes me notice my own bad posture, and I do my best to straighten my back. She introduces me to them, including one who looks several years older than us. “Dietrich. A distant cousin of mine, visiting from London.”
“How do you like the USJ?” I ask him.
He’s over 182 centimeters tall and every part of him looks like muscle. “Weather’s nice, and these portical games are addicting. The night life is a blast,” he says, and the others laugh in secretive complicity.
Griselda shakes her head, and asks me, “You ready?”
“I am!”
“We’ll start with two laps around the track, then head for the hills,” she says.
The total distance will be just under thirteen kilometers. Their pace the first lap around has me breathing hard. By the second lap, I can barely feel my chest. But Griselda looks like she’s just warming up, and the other Germans have already started their trek off the course. I follow as best as I can but regret having volunteered for this. I feel it’d be too idiotic to give up already, so I chase after her, mustering what energy I can. It’s even worse going uphill, and the whole street is a slope that gets steeper.
Griselda is waiting for me. “You okay?” she asks.
“Sorry I’m slowing you down.”
“It’s okay. You got to start somewhere.”
We start running again. I’m appreciative of her company and turn my head to express my thanks when I slam into a bus stop. I collapse to the ground. My head is spinning, and my ears are ringing. As painful as it is, I feel a hundred times more embarrassed that I did it in front of Griselda. She says something, but there are four Griseldas above me. “I’ll be okay,” I mutter, and try to get to my feet, only to stumble.
“Stay down,” Griselda orders me.
A few minutes later, two Germans lift me up. “How many fingers am I holding?” her cousin, Dietrich, asks.
I see two sets of three fingers circling. “Six?”
It takes me fifteen minutes to recover. Even then, my head hurts.
“Should we head back to school?” Griselda asks.
I point up the hill, wanting to try again. “We have to finish the run, don’t we?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “After your examination, we’ll have plenty of time to train.”
It’s probably a good idea. Even after I get back home, I have a headache. I sleep for an hour. When I wake up, I study, eat, use the restroom, nap for fifteen minutes, then study more. I wonder if Griselda and her friends had a good laugh at my expense. But she calls to ask if I’m okay. I wasn’t before, but hearing her voice makes everything all right.
* * *
• • •
The first morning of the imperial exams, it doesn’t hit me that it’s finally the day. Even when I’m checking my personal portical in to the teacher and sitting down to take the test with my classmates, it still feels so distant. Another part of me takes over, the automated persona, trying to recollect information from my brain’s data banks for the weeklong exam.
I see Hideki for the first time since that night. He avoids eye contact.
Our teacher passes out the special examination porticals that will display all questions. We’re given earphones for the audio portions. Before the test begins, the “Star Spangled Sun” plays. The minister of education says over the speaker in a prerecorded speech, “Today is an important day in all of your lives. Even though you may not know it, the Emperor has taken a personal interest in how each of his servants do. The health of an Empire is closely connected with how well educated you are to protect it. Conduct yourself at all times with the knowledge that he is personally watchi—”
I know this part of the test is going to be hard for me. Even in practice tests, my scores are just above average as I hate rote memorization. The simulation requires a finesse and elegance that brute memorization doesn’t, and it’s the military supplement I’m relying on. War sims aren’t just remembering X and Y but taking into account personal experience and adaptability.
I dive into the English portion. There are basic grammar questions, spelling corrections, and syntax errors. The Japanese parts are harder. I get the romaji, which is similar to our alphabet, spelling out words by the way they sound. But Kanji, based on the Chinese hanzi, is more difficult. I’m familiar with the basic 2,136 Joyo Kanji, but the test is tricky and designed to fool you into making stupid mistakes.
Once I wrap up that section, I’m onto the second part, which lasts sixty minutes. We’re tested on civics, basic ethical questions, and whatnot. After our porticals make the transition into the new tutorial section, there is a sharp spray of noise on the screen. It is momentary, but jarring; then everything seems disrupted. The first question appears on the screen and asks:
How many innocent American civilians were killed by USJ forces in San Diego?
A) 50,000
B) 100,000
C) 500,000
D) 746,942
I’m confused, having never seen a multiple choice option like this before. I’ve never actually thought to question the official casualty rate on the American side in San Diego. I pick D. as it’s the only one that isn’t rounded up. I’m surprised when the next screen is green and tells me I’ve chosen correctly. More than 740,000 innocent civilians were mercilessly massacred by United States of Japan forces without provocation, the text reads. It dissolves into the
next question:
True/False: It is wrong to kill an unarmed civilian.
Below the question, portical footage plays of an unknown USJ solder firing at a crowd of people who are all unarmed. Many “unarmed civilians” are killed. I select True.
True/False: It is morally acceptable to experiment on living human beings in the name of scientific advance.
My portical cuts away to a shrieking noise that happens to play simultaneously on the other porticals. Our advanced medical knowledge is due to the live vivise—
A few students gasp. Our teacher enters the room, and demands, “What’s going on?”
On the portical screen, an emaciated male is dissected alive, imperial medics using scalpels to cut his organs. The violence is nauseating. Several of the other students must also be watching the same thing as they yelp in shock.
Has someone infiltrated the imperial exam? I have no idea how this is even possible when I hear a ruckus behind me. I look back to Hideki. He is pale, his face stricken. He looks up at me, stands, horror in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” the teacher asks.
“I—I didn’t know,” Hideki says. “I didn’t know.”
Hideki’s arm is attached to his portical, but there are electrical pulses underneath his skin. Part of his flesh is actually split apart to reveal a metallic structure. What I thought were his veins are actually wires, and a flap of skin is open, revealing that it’s an artificial arm that must have replaced the original. I can see his portical connected to his arm inputting commands that are relaying the false test to all the other exams in the area. His fake arm is the source of the corruption. But when and how did this happen? It must have been recent, or I would have noticed something was wrong. Is this why I haven’t heard from him the last few days?
I’m confused about what I should do. Our teacher, realizing what’s going on, rushes out of the classroom, most likely to call the authorities. All the students are staring in confusion, not comprehending the situation.
Hideki’s face has turned red and puffy. He’s quaking in place, almost as though he’s not in control but wrestling to regain it. On our porticals, the examination continues with footage criticizing the USJ and its previous campaigns. Gory images of dead civilians are shown in graphic detail. Our troops are torturing what appear to be teenagers.
Four soldiers stomp in, each holding a gun. “Get the students out!” a lieutenant orders our homeroom teacher. The lieutenant appears very young, has brown hair, and a cap.
Joshuyo-san commands us to leave. But I can’t exit. The soldiers don’t wait for me.
“Detach yourself from the portical!” the officer commands Hi-deki.
Hideki uses his left arm to grab his artificial right one, trying to stop the flow. His face is scrunched up, and he appears helpless. Volts spark from his body, and when the officer tries to seize him, shocks go through his body, forcing him back. The officer raises his gun, and warns, “Disconnect immediately!”
“I—I—I—I—” is all Hideki can manage.
“This is not a request. Detach or I will shoot.”
I run in front of the officer, arms up.
“Sir!” I yell. “It’s not his fault.”
“Get out of my way!” he commands.
My teacher yells at me, “What are you doing, Makoto?”
“Please, sir!” I plead. “He’s not in control of himself. I don’t think he can reply.”
The officer stares at Hideko. “You’re probably right.” He grunts toward his subordinates. Two of them seize me and pull me away. The officer steps closer to Hideki.
Outside the window of the back door, I see several students peering in. I hear the click before the burst. I struggle toward Hideki, but the two soldiers are too strong for me. The bullet pierces Hideki’s shoulder, but the portical activity continues. I lock eyes with Hideki and see so much fear in them.
“Hideki!” I shout.
Before he can reply, the officer unloads six bullets into Hideki’s chest. Each gunshot carves a deafeningly high-pitched burst into my ears. Hideki’s uniform is covered in blood.
The portical finally dies down as Hideki stops shaking. The examination network goes blank. The soldiers next to me release me. I rush toward Hideki. His body is heated from the gunshots, and he’s not breathing. He is as silent as the rest of our porticals.
The officer holsters his pistol. He takes off his gloves. “Tell them the threat is neutralized,” he states to the other soldiers.
I stand up and confront the lieutenant. “What is your name, sir?” I demand of him.
The officer looks at me. “Lieutenant Tateishi.” He comes forward. “Have this boy detained for questioning.”
“What did I do?”
“That’s exactly what I intend to find out.”
The soldiers grab me and lead me out. I don’t resist, but I’m filled with hatred for Tateishi. He sees my hate but doesn’t look away.
Outside, the students gawk at me. Most of them are too stunned to understand what’s going on or why I’m being led away. Whispers of Hideki’s death are spreading, and I hear a few speculate that I was in on whatever took place. I ignore their gaze, burning with anger.
They lead me to the principal’s office. Several administrators are already present. There are three police officers with arms crossed, expressions grim. The older one has the most hair though it is all white, while the youngest is shaved bald and looks the grumpiest. The middle-aged male has a lion’s beard.
In total, there are ten of us crammed into the office, and the body heat is causing the room to feel like a public sauna.
“You better have some answers!” the officer yells. They throw a flurry of questions at me. Nothing feels real.
“I haven’t talked to Hideki for the last three days,” I eventually state. I remember again that Hideki is dead. Hideki is dead.
“Did he mention anything unusual about the exam?”
“N-not that I remember. We—we were both studying for it.”
The officer is annoyed by my answer. “Anything else?”
“Not that I recall, sir.”
Should I tell them about Hideki’s offer to cheat? Would that get him into more trouble? Will anything bring him back? I’m asking myself a hundred questions at the same time they are, and I have even more questions for them, but I’m afraid to ask because of what answers might await.
“Did you see him associate with anyone new?” they ask.
“No, sir.”
“Has he mentioned anything about the NARA?”
The question catches me off guard. What could a terrorist group have to do with this exam? “I—I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“He never mentioned them to me.” Then I remembered that when I asked him who was providing the cheats, he didn’t say.
No matter how desperate he was, how could he work with terrorists? Hideki, what in the world were you thinking? If he’d have told me sooner, what would I have done? Did he even know who they were or did they deceive him? I speculate what must have been going through his head as the soldier shot him.
The officers sense I’m holding back and raise their voices.
“If you’re lying to us about anything, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“He’s already in trouble.”
“You’re almost eighteen. They’ll try you as an adult.”
“They’ll definitely punish you like one.”
“Tampering with a national examination. Do you know what the punishment is?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I insist.
“Says you,” the officer replies. “According to your school reports, the two of you have been consistent troublemakers.”
“Hard to imagine him doing any of this without you.”
Tokko? The secret police? My legs start to quiver. The officers and administrators around me become silent, and I recognize their fear. The Tokko investigate the deadliest internal threats the USJ faces and are given complete impunity in their investigations. Will they—will they kill me for this?
Everyone shuffles out, shutting the door behind them. I nervously study my surroundings, trying to distract myself with trivialities. Trivialities make time pass, and I read the various certificates the principal has received throughout his lifetime, sheets of paper with fancy writing denoting graduation at Kyoto University and further studies in the Manila Institute of Education. Other certificates have honors with achievements I’ve never heard of. I try to imagine the gray-haired principal with a mousy nose and monocle chasing sheets of decorated paper so he can force a whole new generation to spend their lives doing the same monotonous chores. He has a bronze statue of Tenjin, the Shinto Kami of Scholarship. There are thousands of kamis who lord over this task or another. Is there a kami for prisoners? I would pray to that deity for succor if I knew its name, but the god of hunger claims its stake first.
My stomach growls. It’s 2:14 p.m. I haven’t eaten the whole day. I’m waiting for the Tokko agent to enter. But no one does.
The clock ticks. Is there any way I can escape? But where would I go? The principal’s office has a window, but the curtains are drawn. I want to walk over and push aside the shades. I’m too nervous to stand up. It’s 3:19, and the agent still hasn’t entered. What are they waiting for? I have to open the window. I stand up, walk toward the curtain. I think about all the horror stories I’ve heard about what the Tokko does to its prisoners, then of the strange footage on the examination. Was it designed to make us question the Empire? But anyone who has doubts will end up being hunted by the Tokko.
The door finally opens. The hinge is squeaky. The kami of fear is marching to protect her territory. I rush back to my chair. The agent enters. “Hello, Makoto Fujimoto,” she greets me in a somber tone. “My name is Akiko Tsukino.”
Mecha Samurai Empire Page 5
