I congratulate her and marvel at how good she must have been to defeat the other cadets.
“How many students are here in total?” Chieko asks.
“The freshmen class for the military academy is about six hundred to seven hundred new students per year, and only thirty-two of those are accepted for the mecha course. That equates to about three thousand military cadets. The civilian side of BEMA has almost twice that every year.”
“What’s the civilian side?”
“Diplomatic corps, engineering, international affairs, anything that doesn’t fall strictly under military supervision but is connected to governmental work. So that’s about nine thousand students total at BEMA when we’re in full session. There are also support staff, administration, international exchange students, and researchers. I think the researchers outnumber cadets.”
“What are they researching?”
She points to a building made entirely of glass, but the windows are tinted so we can’t see inside. “That’s biological studies, and I’ve heard they experiment on animals in there. Lot of the mecha testing and research is south of here in Emeryville. You’ll spend more time there after your mecha training classes officially begin. You’ll also get more practice this year than normal since most of the senior class is away for official field training.”
“Where’s their field training?” Chieko wonders.
“Mainly the Quiet Border and East Moscow,” Noriko replies.
Chieko is surprised. “East Moscow? That’s dangerous for cadets, isn’t it?”
“Things are tense, but they get good experience on the Nihonzarus mechas.” Those are our special winter-class mechas, built specifically for Russian terrain and weather. “I’ve read the specs, and piloting them is a completely different experience because they move so fast through the snow, kind of like snow monkeys. The winter is a nightmare. Your spit will freeze before it hits the ground. The—” Her portical rings. She checks her display screen, and says, “I got to take this,” before stepping away.
Chieko asks me, “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m ‘okay,’” I reply as it’s such a relative term. “How are you?”
“I’m managing.” She grabs her arm and her eyes drift to another place. “Sometimes, I wake up and forget it all happened. And then it hits me again that it did and . . . I . . . I actually didn’t travel as much as I wanted to. Every time I started enjoying it, I thought of the others . . .”
“I kept on moving so I wouldn’t have to think about what happened,” I confess. It worked only half the time.
“I heard you helped make this”—pointing to BEMA—“happen. It was one helluva surprise. I thought they’d made a mistake and asked them to confirm they got my name right.”
“They wouldn’t have accepted you if you didn’t earn it,” I tell her.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re an amazing pilot.”
“I wish Wren were here.”
“I wish all of them were.”
Noriko returns and appears disconcerted. We ask her if everything is “okay” and she explains, “Things have been so tense since that attack outside Dallas Tokai. The Nazis are rounding up any of their citizens with family ties to the USJ and detaining them for questioning. A lot of them have just disappeared.”
“You have family in Germany?”
“My aunt works at the South African embassy, and we haven’t heard from her in three weeks. My mom is trying to find out where she is.” Noriko straightens her uniform, wanting to change the topic. “Let me show you the cat garden.”
“What’s that?”
We find out five minutes later. It’s a garden filled with cat statues. A massive monument of one licking its paw is the centerpiece. There are hundreds of cats wandering the grounds, mostly indifferent to our presence, although a few make friendly overtures to Noriko. “It’s a celebration of cats by K. Yi,” Noriko says, petting the striped one that sidles next to her.
There’s a cat-mecha statue built in Takaoka that looks both deadly and absurdly cute.
“Would you drive that if it were real?” I ask the two.
“Depends on the arsenal and armor,” Noriko replies.
Chieko answers, “I’m more of a dog person.”
“I read somewhere they were doing tests with cat and dog minds to drive simulated mechas, but they couldn’t get them to work,” Noriko says. “The problem was they were simulating bipedal mechas. Soon as they switched them to quadruped mechas, they were even better than human pilots.” Noriko lifts one of the cats and says, “It’d be fun if this were my copilot.”
We both laugh and move away from the garden. Noriko points out various buildings and recounts some of the urban legends behind them, stories of famous officers in the USJ and the feats they accomplished when they attended. The air is fresh and smells of trees like the London planes, coast redwoods, and copper beeches that are all over campus.
We climb the steps in front of the big campanile at the middle of campus. They’ve built three neighboring columns, which help support the enormous cannon underneath the big clock. I look in the direction the cannon points and see the university and the bay beyond. It’s a spectacular view, and I still can’t believe I’m here as a student. It’s always been my dream. But after I got rejected that second time, I thought I’d never get the chance.
“Nice view, isn’t it?” Noriko asks me.
“Unbelievable.”
She points out several important buildings, like the Masuyo Yoshida Pavilion, named after the famous officer who liberated many of the Japanese-American prison camps.
“Berkeley’s one of the best cities in the world. You’re both going to have a great time here,” Noriko tells us. “The other cadets have been asking about you two.”
“Have they?”
“You survived the German biomech, saved the life of two mecha officers, and defeated the American terrorists in the Quiet Border. That’s tough business.”
Chieko and I shuffle awkwardly at the praise. Noriko doesn’t press us for details.
Instead, she asks, “What are you two doing for dinner? They have a new place that imports soy sauce from Shodo-shima, and they have the best soy sauce ice cream. Put it on your waffle and you’re set. C’mon, my treat.”
* * *
• • •
The dinner is wonderful. I stuff myself and get back to my room thirty minutes before lights out. The bed seems very welcoming, so I take off my uniform and lie down. I think about Griselda. I’ve tried calling her several times, but haven’t been able to get any messages through. The political situation with the Nazis has gotten markedly worse since the incident at the Quiet Border, and I’m not surprised that my communications haven’t reached her.
I want to tell her about all that’s happened, how I have finally achieved my dream. I want to tell her that I’m here, really here at BEMA.
What gnaws at me is that instead of joy, there’s a gaping hollow that’s tearing me up inside. I can’t separate the idea that all those who passed away paid the price so I could get this opportunity. That’s too high a cost just so I could get a chance to pilot mechas. I play the logic game with myself, tell myself, You’re here to avenge them. Then another part asks, How are you going to get revenge? Attack the NARA again? But I already got the FDR. Find the biomech who did this? Don’t be ridiculous and dishonor their memories by trying to play “hero” when you’re anything but.
Guilt and anger always start out specific before spreading like a voracious contagion through every part of me.
I move my additional pillow from my left flank to the right one. I think about mecha piloting minutiae, rearrange the schematics I studied during my break to come up with new designs. It usually helps me sleep. But not always. In my recent travels, I met veterans who alleviated their w
oes with games, alcohol, and companionship. While I understood them, I’m conflicted about trying to dull the pain like that. What I’m suffering doesn’t compare to those who died. I juggle random accusations at myself, wrestle pointlessly with a remorse that never abates, and eventually nod off to the hum of exhausted self-loathing.
* * *
• • •
This year’s freshmen class has a total of 698 students from all the various disciplines. We’re in the Satoshi Ide Hall, named after the famous admiral from the class of 1961 who defeated a fleet of Nazi Super U-boats off Argentina.
Superintendent Tobo, who’s been in charge of BEMA for the past eight years, gives us a gift from the Emperor. It is two books with specially embroidered covers. The first is by the military strategist Yamaga Soko, while the other is by Miyake Kanran, who cofounded the Mito school of nationalist learning. It has the Emperor’s personal seal on the cover. We receive them with two hands, bowing as though we were receiving a gift directly from the Emperor.
“The Empire relies on your courage, bravery, and ability to defend against its enemies, both external and internal,” Tobo-san proclaims. “We face graver threats than we’ve ever seen. There’s a reason you were chosen to be here above everyone else, and that’s because—”
I can see the excitement in the other first-year students. They’re stirred by her speech, as I should be. I’d like to think it’s all about glory, even courage, and lots of training. But I know luck plays a bigger role than anyone would like to admit.
As the superintendent evokes memories of the American’s last stand in Canada during the Great Pacific War, she reminds us how the early mechas were mainly statues symbolic of the Emperor. It was the terrified Americans and Canadians who believed they were actually walking giants and spread stories of that nature that convinced the IJA to develop them further. The engineer I studied about while I was a RAM, Hiroshi Boshiro, would see his “gyration stabilizer” put to good use as the victory over the Americans quickly led to a precarious situation with the Nazis. The Germans felt they deserved more territory in the Americas for defeating the “bigger American force” on the East Coast. No way were we going to give them anything, and the second generation of mechas were there to ensure it. They were still limited, requiring vast collections of energy and infantry to defend them. It would be a continual headache until the development of the Bradlium Particle Generator (BPG), using minerals harvested from meteors and, later, asteroids, which would change the situation.
I’m recollecting the intricacies of mecha politics when I realize the speech is over and the superintendent is personally shaking all our hands, welcoming us to BEMA.
Her hand is surprisingly cold. I expect her to pass by without a word, but she says, “I’ve heard much about your feats on the Quiet Border. I hope you will impart your experiences to the other cadets.”
I’m stunned she knows who I am. “Thank you, ma’am,” I mutter.
She nods and moves to the next student. She only says, “Welcome,” to the others. I know it’s shallow, but, at least momentarily, I beam.
* * *
• • •
That joy quickly evaporates when I get outside the hall and see the Tokko agent who interrogated me after Hideki’s death, Akiko Tsukino. She waves me over, and I bow to her, wondering what I’ve done so wrong that she would personally come to BEMA. I get nervous seeing that her expression is ominously blank. It’s obvious she’s not here to congratulate me. We walk to an adjacent corridor. Curiously, someone is playing on a portical behind her, though she seems indifferent to his presence.
“You’ve spent the past few months traveling,” she says with an authority indicating she knows everything I’ve done.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How was Keijo?” she asks.
“It was—it was good,” I reply, remembering my time in Korea. “There was a protest going on against the governor. She’s been swayed by some strange cult figure, but I couldn’t figure it all out because it was too confusing.”
“Gods and goddesses are excuses for defective ideologies. The Emperor is generous in allowing the regional deities to enter the Shinto pantheon. But there are too many traitors who exploit that generosity and use it to kindle treason.”
“That’s unfortunate. Keijo is a beautiful city. I wish I could have seen it without all the protests.”
“Did you know in the Korean language, Keijo is called Kyongsong, and the original name for the city was Seoul, before they joined the Empire in 1910?”
“I didn’t. We never spoke in the local dialect.”
“How many languages can you speak?” she asks.
“English and Japanese.” I wonder how many she can speak.
“No German?”
“No German, ma’am,” I answer.
“You have German friends, though. One you’ve tried calling on multiple occasions.”
“You mean Griselda?” I ask. Agent Tsukino remains silent. “She’s been my friend since high school.”
“I know.” She looks at me. “You’ve done well for yourself. Entry to BEMA as a mecha cadet is only for the elite.”
“Th-thank you, ma’am.”
“Don’t risk your career for a friendship with a Nazi,” she warns me.
“She’s not a Nazi,” I instinctively reply. “Or she is, but she’s different. She didn’t have a choice about joining the party.”
“Everyone has a choice. I’ve heard your conversations with her. Mostly vacuous, but if there was even the slightest suspicion regarding your intentions, you’d have lost everything you fought for.”
“I would never help the Nazis.”
“Desire has a way of clouding judgment,” Agent Tsukino replies.
“I haven’t spoken to Griselda in months.”
“Better to keep it that way instead of repeatedly trying to call her. Her situation may be more complicated than you realize.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, alarmed that something has happened.
“I mean all the citizens in the German Americas are in a precarious situation with the recent state of affairs,” she says, making her statement more general in nature. “Don’t make it worse for her.”
“Did you come all the way here to warn me about that?”
Her eyes are grim. “I thought I’d check in on you. I also want to introduce you to a fellow cadet who’s starting this year.”
The last part catches me off guard. Who would she want to introduce me to?
She gestures to the student behind her, who is absorbed in his portical. He looks like a kid and has long black hair covering his face.
“Kujira,” she says. “Say hi.”
Kujira? Like the famous pilot?
He doesn’t look up, sucked into his game.
“Kujira!” Agent Tsukino snaps. “Kujira!”
He finally comes over.
“Maybe you can show him around,” she suggests to me. “Say hi, Kujira.”
He raises his hand for a second before getting back to his game.
His rudeness, paired with the agent’s warning, annoys me.
“I’m still familiarizing myself with Berkeley,” I reply, wanting to politely decline.
Either she doesn’t catch the hint, or she ignores it. “You can do it together. He’ll be your dorm neighbor.”
So that’s who the empty room is for.
“What’s with his name?” I ask.
“You got a problem with my name?” he looks up and asks.
“Kujira is the greatest mecha pilot in our history,” I say to him.
“Second greatest,” he corrects me.
“Who’s the first?”
“Me.”
I laugh at his preposterous confidence.
“Your delusion makes you think you have the right
to use her name?” I demand, irked by the fact that he seems serious about his claim.
He pulls aside his hair, and, for a second, I see a scar across his forehead before it’s covered back up. “I didn’t realize her name was your property.”
He leaves the corridor with his portical game.
Agent Akiko Tsukino explains to me, “Kujira was his mother. The name passed on.”
It takes me a second to fully grasp what she just said. “I didn’t know she had a son.”
“He’s one of the best pilots I’ve seen.”
“But he’s—he’s my age.”
“He’s piloted mechas his entire life,” she explains. “The problem is, he’s better driving one of those big robots than he is dealing with people. Even if he won’t admit it, he needs friends.”
I don’t know if it’s proper for me to ask, but I have to know. “How are you involved?”
I expect her to snap back that it’s none of my business. But instead she says, “He saved my life once.”
“A few minutes ago, you were warning me against being friends with a German. And now you’re asking me to become friends with Kujira? You sure you trust my taste in friendships?”
“Who we choose to befriend symbolizes the strange dichotomy of our world. We’re all snails living on the razor’s edge. Good day, Makoto Fujimoto.”
She leaves the corridor. I follow a minute later to ask her another question, but she’s nowhere in sight.
* * *
• • •
The portical lists our daily schedule. Every Monday to Friday, we have classes from eight to five, with a break from noon to twelve fifty for lunch. Most of our classes are fifty minutes, giving us ten minutes to get to our next class. The kenjutsu class (the study of art of swordsmanship) is ninety minutes every weekday and is our final session before breaking for the evening. On Saturdays, the kenjutsu class is three hours and we can also take two electives of our choice. We can switch electives up every month so I’ll probably check out gagaku (music) and kagaku (Japanese poetry). Sundays are marked as our day off and will be consumed by homework. Lights out at ten. As this itinerary is for first-year students, I will share most of my classes with Chieko and Kujira.
Mecha Samurai Empire Page 22
