The Brazen Shark

by David Lee Summers

  With a sigh, she returned to the gondola and did her best to enjoy the three hour flight south by southwest. The Brazen Shark reached Sapporo with the sun high in a blue sky. She allowed a shark-like grin. The horizontal red, white, and blue bars of the Russian imperial flag on the airship’s tail should be clear. She looked out at the small village, nestled between the mountains and the Ishikari River.

  “Make three turns around the city. Identify targets. I prefer we attack government buildings and coastal warehouses, places with fewer people, targets the Russians would attack. Let’s minimize civilian casualties.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” came the response from around the gondola. Men went to the windows with spyglasses and plotted an attack plan. As they made their sweeps, the men approached and consulted her. Once satisfied, she looked to the bombardier, Kanbei.

  “You may fire when ready,” she said.

  He opened the hatch in the Brazen Shark’s belly and coordinated with the helmsman and the navigator. When they gave the signal, he let the first bombs fall along Sapporo’s waterfront. Imagawa watched the buildings erupt in flame, then wiped away a tear before anyone could see. She loved Japan, but it had taken a disastrous course. Nothing hurt worse than correcting the one she loved so much.

  Chapter Seven

  The Name of Storm

  General Mikhail Ivanovich Dragomirov stared at a Russian map. The Empire stretched across three continents: Europe, Asia, and North America. At this point, the North American holdings were concentrated in the Alaska and Washington Territories. A few months ago, Dragomirov imagined the Russian Empire stretching all the way to Texas. Now, even Washington was just a bargaining chip—something they could give up so they could keep Alaska.

  A decade ago, they sold Alaska to America for a pittance, but that was before the Russians knew about oil under the ground and recognized its value.

  The general marveled at the thought of a worldwide Russian Empire. It seemed possible in the days when the voice spoke to him. Under normal circumstances, he’d dismiss hearing voices as madness. However, this voice spoke to every important Russian from the czar to his ministers to the generals. Moreover, the voice spoke to many lesser Russians, including peasants and soldiers. Almost everyone he knew had heard the voice.

  “The voice” was a poor name for the presence because it did more than speak. It gave men greater agility and assured every plan or machine devised worked the first time. The presence called itself Legion and the name fit well. Like a legion of elite troops, the presence assured victory no matter where the Russian army went. Legion not only spoke to Russians, but spoke to all it encountered and convinced them the Russians were benevolent.

  Unfortunately, shots still had to be fired. Something limited how far and how fast Legion could spread. Dragomirov imagined Legion as a spirit of some sort, who could stretch out and talk to different minds at the same time. The general understood an army could spread itself too thin when it moved. He wondered if that’s what happened to Legion. Had it not anticipated how far it would have to go to cover the globe? Somehow that didn’t make sense given everything else Legion understood.

  After spreading itself thin, whatever Legion was, it vanished. The Americans who accepted Russian influence began to have second thoughts. Some still welcomed the Russians, but most took up arms and drove the Russians from California and Oregon.

  Dragomirov sighed as he stared at the map. If he had mounted an invasion, he would have grabbed and held British Columbia so he could maintain a steady supply line to Washington and Oregon. Legion argued the Russian airships made such a strategy unnecessary and would have added Canada and England to the list of Russia’s enemies. It seemed like sound argument at the time.

  When Legion vanished, Russia had one functioning airship with another under construction. The functioning airship had been destroyed over San Francisco and the second one had just come into service.

  The general’s adjutant entered the room and saluted. He handed the general a report which turned Dragomirov’s attention from America to Western Asia. There, oblivious to Russia’s objectives in America, Turkey and Austria vied to control Bosnia and Herzegovina. Austria fared poorly against the Ottoman Turks and screamed for Russia to honor its treaties and send forces. Russia had sent a few volunteer forces, but this report showed they had just been rebuffed when they attempted to cross the Danube.

  There was a real danger Russia would lose significant territory around the Black Sea, where all of its warm water ports were now located. Just a few weeks ago, Russian forces were poised to occupy San Francisco—not just a warm water port, but an outstanding Pacific port as well. Dragomirov pushed the unproductive regret from his mind.

  He could use an airship to drop bombs on Turkish troops, but Mendeleev pulled strings and took the only ship available to inspect a gas production facility on Sakhalin Island.

  “Where the hell is the Nicholas Alexandrovich? Is Mendeleev still out on that God-forsaken island?”

  “He’s due back in four days, but no one has seen the airship since it departed Vladivostok, bound for the island,” reported the adjutant.

  “What do you mean no one has seen it? Did it arrive at Poronaysk or not?”

  “As far as we know, sir. We have no telegraph lines out to Sakhalin Island. It should be on its way back.”

  Rage simmered within Dragomirov. Mendeleev convinced the czar that showing off the airship in a cross-country flight would improve the people’s morale after the recent defeats in America. The general imagined those spirits falling anew when the people learned Russia had become landlocked. Surely someone had seen the airship. “Telegraph all stations, I want to know where the Nicholas Alexandrovich was last sighted and when. Bring me the news as soon as you have it,” said the general.

  The adjutant saluted, spun on his heel and left.

  The general sighed and considered other options. He consulted with tacticians and checked the supply status. He brought over a secretary and drafted a memo to the admiral who commanded the Black Sea fleet to ask for a meeting to devise strategy. It was familiar and necessary work to the general, but he missed Legion all the more when he had to coordinate with others. When Legion spoke in everyone’s head, he could move troops and ships with a mere thought. He would know where Mendeleev’s airship was just by asking.

  * * *

  Ramon and Fatemeh discovered Lord Katsu’s mechanical man did more than deliver messages. The concierge at their hotel could dial instructions commanding the automaton to pull a rickshaw to destinations around the city. After a week in Tokyo, Professor LeFebre suggested they visit the new National Museum in Ueno Park.

  The mechanical man rolled through the streets at a speed which rivaled running horses. Men and women carrying bundles jumped out of its way. Several times, Ramon thought the mechanical man would run into a wagon or a horse-drawn streetcar, but somehow he could evade such obstacles—often at the last possible moment. By the time they arrived at the museum, Ramon’s heart pounded and he wiped sweat from his brow. He stepped from the rickshaw and offered a trembling hand to Fatemeh.

  She stepped off the rickshaw and smiled at the mechanical driver. “Arigato,” she said.

  “He can’t understand you.” Ramon shook his head and laughed. “He has to be programmed with those dials and levers in his chest.”

  “It never hurts to be polite.” Fatemeh shrugged.

  “Dōitashimashite,” said the mechanical man in a scratchy voice.

  Ramon and Fatemeh both turned to look. The mechanical man stared straight ahead unblinking, waiting for Ramon to flip the lever commanding it to start the return trip. They looked at each other and shrugged, then turned around to face the gates to a park containing artfully trimmed trees and bushes. A short distance down the path a fountain sprayed water high into the air. The museum sat further back—a red brick building with a grand entryway surrounded by two domed towers.

  The newlyweds walked through the park, lingered fo
r a moment to admire the fountain, then continued inside. All the signs were in Japanese, but Professor LeFebre told them an impressive display of Edo period paintings awaited in the museum’s north wing on the bottom floor.

  They turned and found a room filled with folding screens and hanging scrolls showing everything from fierce samurai warriors in battle to colorful depictions of trees to a calm, gray tiger licking his paws. The paintings were on paper instead of canvas and many seemed to be made with ink and water colors instead of oil paints, which gave them an ethereal quality. Some paintings included flecks of gold leaf, which shone in the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

  Fatemeh sighed and squeezed Ramon’s hand as she lingered first before one painting and then another.

  They admired a painting which depicted a man in a gray hat and brown robes decorated with flying birds. Fatemeh pointed to Japanese words printed in the corner. “I wonder what it says.”

  Ramon had to admit he was curious as well. As he looked at the painting, the words shifted and blurred. He removed his glasses and cleaned them, then slipped them back on. When he did, instead of Japanese, he saw English. “Gust of wind carries leaves from the trees, giving the name of storm to the mountain wind.”

  “That’s beautiful,” said Fatemeh. “Did you just come up with that?”

  Ramon shook his head. “No, that’s what it says.” He pointed at the painting.

  “Your Japanese is coming along much better than mine!”

  “The poet’s name is Funya no Yasa’hide.”

  “Legion?” Ramon blinked at the voice within his mind.

  “What about Legion?” Fatemeh took a step back and placed her hands on her hips.

  “I hear him in my mind. He says the poet is Funya no Yasa’hide.” Ramon smirked and looked up at the painting. “I never considered it before, but Legion could be a great help in this whole diplomatic business. He could translate and help promote understanding.”

  “We fear it would bore us to be little more than a servant to humankind.”

  “Why do you hear Legion now?” asked Fatemeh.

  Although she couldn’t hear the reply, Legion responded. “Imagawa’s airship has attacked Hokkaido. Dozens have died, although an analysis of the attack indicates she avoided the most populated areas.”

  Ramon’s shoulders slumped as he relayed Legion’s report. “I suspect we should get back to the hotel,” he added.

  “Why?” Fatemeh’s eyebrows came together.

  “News is sure to reach Tokyo soon. I suspect there could be trouble for people from outside Japan until they sort out who is responsible and are certain they’ve routed out any spies.”

  Fatemeh huffed a sigh, but nodded. “I see what you mean. Where is Captain Cisneros?”

  “The Bashō should reach Ensenada tomorrow,” reported Legion.

  Ramon relayed the information, then thought: “Will Hoshi arrive in time to meet him?”

  “If Maravilla’s report is accurate, and presuming he met no unexpected delays, he should be there.”

  Ramon looked around the museum. Even if news reached Tokyo right away, it would be a while before they came to the authorities’ attention. “Would you mind translating a few more poems for me?” asked Ramon.

  “Certainly,” said Legion.

  “I want to walk around a little more before we get back in the automaton’s rickshaw.” Ramon stepped close to Fatemeh and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Besides, I feel in the mood to read some more Japanese poetry.”

  She smiled at him and they stepped over to the next painting.

  * * *

  Onofre Cisneros’s back hurt. He sat on the deck of his cabin aboard the Bashō. He loved the light-colored wood which framed the paper interior walls. He loved the gentle sunlight streaming in through the porthole. He wished the ship came equipped with chairs as he knew them.

  He stretched his back and looked down at plans he labored over. The Japanese airship impressed him, but he already saw numerous ways he could improve on the design. The Bashō’s steam plant sat in the ship’s stern with the stack jutting out like a tail. If he replaced the alcohol-burning steam engine with a chemical reaction steam engine, he could halve the weight.

  He lay flat on his belly and drew netting which would allow men to climb up to the superstructure where a promenade deck with large windows could be installed. Airmen could use the area as a defensive platform or as a place to maintain a lookout.

  He paused. The Japanese built these craft to defend against other dirigibles, but he now envisioned a sky filled with airships from many nations battling each other through smoke-darkened skies. Onofre Cisneros shuddered.

  “This is why men like Ramon Morales who want to be diplomats are so important.” Legion’s voice resounded in Cisneros’s mind.

  The captain rolled over and sat bolt upright. During the year when Legion had lived inside his mind and chattered non-stop, the entity seldom startled him. He grew used to sharing his thoughts. No matter how well he knew the alien, its presence now felt intrusive.

  “How long have you been here?” Cisneros whispered the words so they wouldn’t travel too easily through the paper walls.

  “We are always nearby. We just entered your cerebral cortex a few minutes ago.”

  Cisneros nodded. “Do you have news from Ramon or Maravilla?”

  “We have news from Mendeleev. The hijacked Russian airship attacked Sapporo. The ship then traveled north, back to a new hiding place on Sakhalin. Ramon has asked whether he should seek authorities to tell them what he knows.”

  Cisneros shook his head. “That would raise suspicion. Ramon and Fatemeh should be as discreet as possible and make sure they carry their papers with them at all times, especially their letter of introduction from Lord Katsu.” The captain didn’t speak the words aloud, but rather thought them clearly and distinctly, hoping Legion would hear.

  “Of course I understand,” said Legion. “You used to speak to us like this all the time. We don’t understand why your attitude toward us has changed.”

  “Years ago, when I owned a mine, I had a mistress. I used to tell her everything. Then one day she left,” thought Cisneros. “She broke my heart and I found it difficult to trust another woman for a long time.” The woman had been a spy for Benito Juárez while the French controlled Mexico. She passed information to the government which allowed them to take everything he owned.

  “Is there anything Ramon and Fatemeh can do to help with the situation in Sapporo?”

  Cisneros looked down at his drawings. “How many people are aboard the Russian airship?”

  “Mendeleev believes there are twenty-three. Aside from the bombs dropped on Sapporo, the ship is fully armed.” Cisneros wondered if the alien swarm already anticipated what he considered. How well could Legion read his thoughts?

  The captain stood and left the cabin. He entered the gondola where Lord Katsu looked out over the water. The minister turned and smiled. “Isn’t the view fantastic? I have to tell you, it’s been great to get away from the hustle and bustle of Tokyo.”

  Cisneros nodded. “While you’re away, do you have anyone to read your mail and attend to your correspondence?”

  “Of course,” said Katsu. “Otherwise I’d find my desk piled high with a mountain of papers when I return. My secretary sorts through the correspondence, answers what he can and leaves the rest for me to attend to when I get back.”

  “Can your secretary sign for you?”

  If Lord Katsu thought the question strange, he gave no hint. “Absolutely. In fact, I think he has more business sense than I do. What’s more, I have my automata to deliver messages. Those mechanical men are far more trustworthy than any human helpers.”

  “Very clever,” said Cisneros. He stepped over to the window with his back to Katsu, just in case his lips moved while he communicated with Legion. “One of Katsu’s automata looks after Ramon and Fatemeh at the hotel, right?”

  “Yes,” a
ffirmed Legion.

  “Do you think you could instruct Ramon how to operate its controls?” A wind gust caught the ship, causing Cisneros to reach out for the railing in front of him.

  “It’s quite simple. Yes.”

  “Stand by, I’ll have a suggestion for Ramon soon.”

  “Something catch your eye?” asked Katsu.

  Cisneros turned around and shook his head. “No, just enjoying the view.” He winced and grabbed his back. “If the Japanese build another airship, I recommend installing a few Western-style chairs.”

  * * *

  Imagawa sat on the captain’s bed aboard The Brazen Shark. She still didn’t find European chairs comfortable and preferred to sit on the floor, but despite the cabin’s size, it offered little floor space. She moved into the cabin after the captain’s eviction. She didn’t like it, but her warriors expected it. Even though the bedding had been changed, the room still smelled of sickness and infection. Killing the captain had been merciful. Even if he’d survived the overland hike, his disability would have forced him into a disgraceful retirement.

  “The way of the samurai is found in death.” She reflected on Samurai Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s words. As soldiers, the Russian airmen should have expected to die in combat. Still she experienced a guilty pang at ordering their deaths.

  Many expected a woman to have a soft heart, but she viewed it as a weakness. Even as a child, she preferred her father’s weapons and armor to dolls and flowers. She never wanted children to care for. At times her old mentor, Masuda Hoshi, would hold a kitten to his face to hear it purr, or gaze across a field at peasant farmers. She supposed some of his compassion rubbed off on her.

  Imagawa’s father led the daimyo’s guard. Hoshi was his lieutenant. When he saw Imagawa’s interest in weapons, she pleaded with him to train her as a samurai. Most women trained as samurai learned to fight as foot soldiers with polearms. Hoshi trained her to do so as well, but he also trained her in swordsmanship and marksmanship. “A samurai must be well rounded in order to take any position on the battlefield.”