Alt.History 101 (Alt.Chronicles)

by Ken Liu

  They walked in silence, only once pausing to stand still as stone at the sound of a dead leaf crackling. Wind, or perhaps an insect.

  The north ridge trail took them gradually up a rocky path until they emerged above the forest treeline and could see Towada a hundred klicks directly east, the nearest city in that direction.

  The sky was clear but for a few wispy grey clouds; remnants of the morning rain. The air was crisp and cool. Blake stopped to drink from his canteen while Kenishiro walked on – he would only take water in full view of Aomori, as was his custom while patrolling the north ridge.

  “Edward-san,” Kenishiro called from up ahead.

  Blake did not hurry, as he did not sense the requirement of expedience in his spotter’s voice. He crested the last bit of trail to the peak of the low mountain and beheld the sprawling city of Aomori in the distance to the north.

  [“She is alive today,”] Kenishiro said. He drank from his canteen and wiped his mouth.

  The city sparkled with glass and steel, some of it moving down the streets; some of it towering over the business district; some of it drifting lazily downstream in the river that snaked its way through the many parks. This idyllic sanctuary, this hallowed birthplace of Tatsuya Kenishiro, was a jewel in a pile of stones for the two men and all who beheld its resolute stolidity in the face of a war that threatened to have no end.

  “There is a new building,” Blake said, pointing to the eastern edge of town.

  A squat building had been erected inside of a protective dirt embankment. It was large enough to see at such a distance, but not large enough to make out much detail. Large red billboards dotted the ground leading up to its entrance.

  “A food distribution center,” Kenishiro said. “Or a shelter.”

  Blake didn’t see any troops, foreign or friendly. Perhaps it was indeed a government building constructed for civilian aid.

  Their reveries were snapped short by the sound of scraping rock. A small cloud of dirt roiled out from behind the next bend on the trail and they heard quick footsteps padding in the other direction.

  Kenishiro let out a sharp yelp and gave chase. He had looked sooner than Blake, and had seen a small Japanese man with a bulky pack on his shoulders.

  Blake, who had seen only the cloud of dirt and the heel of a muddy boot, followed after, calling for Kenishiro to holster his sidearm and wait.

  Words were shouted in Japanese – rapid staccato that was laced with too many foreign colloquialisms for Blake to effortlessly translate. The words were followed by the twin barks of a 9mm pistol, and then there were only the echoes of the rapport across the valley.

  Blake slid to a halt on the loose dirt, seeing first the splash of red on a large boulder at the peak, seeing second the kneeling form of Kenishiro, his face blotched and sweaty, spitting a long string of curses as he violently riffled through the Japanese man’s pack.

  The man was still alive. One of the bullets hit his left collarbone halfway to the shoulder, splintering bone. Needles of glistening white pierced his flesh from within, protruding like the spines of a sea urchin. The other bullet had grazed the man’s head, scraping a pulpy trench over his temple.

  He lay in the soft mud of the trail, his slack, pallid face shaking as he stared blankly up at the sky, chanting, “Shinigami, shinigami,” over and over in a low, hoarse whisper.

  Blake inspected the man’s uniform and realized he carried no weapon, nor did he bear the insignia of the Empire. The omission of the latter was not entirely unusual, as the runners without obvious markings tended to live slightly longer than whose who ran high their banners as they passed through the wood.

  It was unusual, however, for an emissary of the Empire to be devoid of the small, circular tattoo on their left wrist that denoted their loyalty to the Emperor.

  “Kenishiro-san!” Blake said, studying the Japanese man’s clothing. [“He is no runner! His wrist. Look!”]

  Kenishiro could not or chose not to hear the words. He unsheathed his long-blade knife and cut into the bulky pack, splitting it down the side to reveal a black metal box. Blake’s shocked protestations at the great risk to which Kenishiro exposed them both by his conspicuous actions were cut short when Kenishiro pulled forth from the pack the heavy black box. Its top was crammed with buttons and dials. On one side was a crystal display that housed a red needle and a series of numbers: radio frequencies.

  All other thoughts were pushed from both soldiers’ minds as Kenishiro spun the hand-crank on the back of the box and cupped the conical speaker to his ear. With bated breath and watering eyes, he looked at Blake and slowly pulled the speaker away so both of them could hear the tinny, confused inquiries of the radio man’s contact.

  For the first time in almost two years, they had a working radio.

  * * *

  Of course it was not so simple.

  The radio taken from the Japanese man had been built according to specifications that were of no practical use to a soldier operating an American transceiver which had been hardwired to intercept and descramble a very narrow range of coded transmissions.

  However, what all radios have, and what the three soldiers just happened to need, was a small piece of hardware that stepped-down a volatile power load to a moderate level that wouldn’t fry the circuits. Later, Kenishiro would explain that this was the reason he aimed high when he attacked the man on the trail instead of hitting him center mass; he didn’t want to risk damaging the one small chance he had at repairing their radio.

  Blake had to carry the injured Japanese man through the forest. He asked Kenishiro to share the load since he was the one who burdened them with the extra weight, but Kenishiro acted as if the man were already dead, or perhaps as if he never existed in the first place. Either way, Blake was the one with another man’s blood dripping down his shoulders, and he was the one listening to the soft groans of pain and the scratching of shattered bone with each heavy step over soft ground.

  It was quickly approaching nightfall before Blake and Kenishiro returned to camp. They found Alcott standing casually at the edge of the nearby bamboo stand. He had coated the bottom of the trees with pig tallow, and held his rifle over one shoulder. His cool eyes studied Blake and Kenishiro as they walked into camp. He said nothing as Blake lowered the injured Japanese man to the ground and propped him into a sitting position against the bamboo stool. The sergeant studied the man’s injuries, then looked to his own tallow bucket, which was empty.

  Kenishiro placed the black radio box on the white stump and went into the shelter to fetch the broken equipment.

  Blake looked at the empty, overturned tallow bucket on the ground, then at Alcott. The sergeant stared into him, and the two men held their gaze until Kenishiro set the broken radio on the ground next to the stump.

  “I will need light,” he said.

  Blake went into the shelter for a torch.

  “Shinigami,” whispered the injured man.

  This stirred the sergeant. He knelt before the man, whose eyes followed the muscular form before him with steady horror.

  “Hai,” Alcott agreed in flawless Japanese. [“You have found the death-bringers. We have been here all this time, right under your nose.] He drew his long knife from its sheath and touched the glinting tip to a needle of shattered collarbone. [“Tell me, have you seen any ghosts in the forest? Any other shadows, besides those before you now?”]

  The Japanese man’s body clenched with each ragged breath as the movement of his chest forced the shattered bones near his shoulder to scissor apart, then back together.

  Alcott tapped one of the slivers and the Japanese man screamed through clenched teeth. His gray, sweat-sheened skin quivered as he fought to stay awake.

  “Shinigami! Shinigami!” he repeated.

  Alcott’s eyes narrowed. [“I am searching for a death-bringer with a black scar down his right flank, just over the striped shoulder of his foreleg. He is one who does not belong in this forest. He has golden eyes that
turn green by firelight. Have you seen such a creature?”]

  “Shinigami…”

  Alcott’s blade approached shattered bone once more, and the Japanese man stiffened. He began shaking his head vigorously and at great pain to himself. Fresh blood seeped from the wound near his shoulder and tears streamed down his ashen face.

  “I must concentrate,” Kenishiro said as he crouched next to the radio.

  Alcott studied the injured man a moment longer, then sheathed his knife and joined Blake near the stump.

  In the glow cast from the dancing flame of the torch, Kenishiro began his work. He exposed the inner workings of both radios, squinting at one, then the other. With measured force, he ripped out a nest of wires from the new radio to expose a silver plate welded on one side to the frame. Kenishiro drew his knife and pried up the flap, hinging it at the weld. A gold-plated box resting atop a coil of copper wiring lay within. With several quick, deft movements of his knife, Kenishiro extracted this golden box and held it to the dancing light.

  Most sides were brushed metal, but one was transparent plastic. Beneath the window was a small, crowded circuit board.

  Kenishiro grunted and kicked the black radio box aside. He knelt closer to the broken radio and spent the next hour replacing the failed part. The other men looked on in silence, only moving to replenish the torch fuel.

  Finally, Kenishiro stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. He nodded at Alcott, who then knelt on one knee and flipped a switch.

  A squelching wail was the waking cry from the long-dead radio. The men grimaced as Alcott turned the frequency dial until he landed on quiet static. His hand paused, and he was about to continue his search down the dial, when an unmistakably Texan voice began speaking a long string of letters.

  “It’s a simple replacement code,” Alcott said, his brow furrowing.

  The first unspoken thought amongst the soldiers was that it was a trap; somehow an American soldier had been forced to transmit a false code in the hopes of drawing out his compatriots.

  “War... over,” Alcott said after a long string of letters. “Allies… victorious. Japan… surrendered. Soldiers… come… home. Message repeats.”

  “How long do you think they’ve been transmitting that message?” Blake asked.

  None of them had an answer. It was unlikely they could form the words even if they did. They stood around the wavering torch, dumbfounded, listening to the message over and over again.

  The year was 1947.

  Hitler was dead, the Japanese armies had swept across California and met a gruesome demise at the borders of the American Midwest, and several nations would once again enjoy a brief peace.

  The second great world war had ended.

  * * *

  The next morning was clearer and brighter than any in recent memory. Cool orange light glowed beyond the sparse canopy overhead, turning gradually bluer with each passing minute.

  The crisp air helped to cut the perennial feeling that Blake was covered with a thick layer of caked grime. His uniform held as many physical memories as his mind held intangible.

  On his left sleeve was a dark patch of dried blood from when he had been cracked in the nose by a falling piece of bamboo during the razing of their mountain. The small hole at the back of his collar was from a mishap with his shears when he tried to cut his own hair after exhausting himself wrestling with a boar.

  Each of them had memories, the three soldiers in the woods; physical and intangible. This cool, bright morning was like a salve for the more grievous of remembrances, and it was a reprieve that none of them had been granted for some time.

  Blake emerged from the shelter, grime and all, to find Alcott in the center of camp, shirtless, booted foot on the white stump, straight razor to his own neck. The honed edge scraped along the sergeant’s tanned skin with each raspy stroke as he stared into the forest.

  It was in this moment that Blake realized he and Kenishiro would be traveling without the sergeant.

  There was a rustle in the trees, and Blake tensed. He silently raised his rifle, then stopped when he heard someone groan in pain. In the heart of the dense stand of bamboo trees sat the injured Japanese prisoner, lashed to a thick trunk. A blood-soaked gag silenced his more energetic cries, and it was clear that the sergeant had done nothing to relieve the pain of the man’s initial gunshot wounds.

  There was nothing to say. Blake shouldered the pack he had prepared the previous night and walked out of camp. The buzzing of insects and the scraping of honed steel against skin followed him into the glade.

  Kenishiro sat motionless in the center of the clearing, a full pack at his side. He looked up at Blake. His eyes briefly flicked back toward camp, and Blake shook his head.

  Minutes later, the two of them were out of earshot of the camp that had been their home for the past two years, and with each step they felt the chains of purgatory sloughing to the ground and sinking into the murky abyss of distant memory.

  * * *

  The fishing town of Aomori was at the back of a large bay which spilled into the Sea of Japan. It would be a full day’s hike from the base of the north ridge once they reached its crest. Blake and Kenishiro would have the cover of trees until the last few klicks, when they would be forced to walk in the open as they approached the city.

  The port town of Noshiro, to the south, would have been a shorter march, and would be just as likely to house Allied troops. Kenishiro had not asked permission to make his birthplace their destination, nor had Blake protested once it became obvious in which direction they were headed. They proceeded as if it were the only real choice, because it was.

  They had not been long down the northern slope of the ridge when Kenishiro stopped mid-stride. Blake froze a fraction of a second later, sensing his spotter’s hesitation. The only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves high in the canopy.

  Then came a rumble from the sky, like thunder. Above the patchy canopy of spade-like beech leaves, the silver belly of a Grumman F6F Wildcat fighter plane streaked past, trailing a roiling, apocalyptic swath of burning smoke. The disintegrating aircraft was on a slow descent and turning on its axis as it fell.

  Moments later, there was a tremendous crash from the forest not more than a klick to the northeast. Blake and Kenishiro tightened the packs on their shoulders and covered the distance at a light run, sprinting as the terrain would allow.

  They came upon the long scar of the plane’s descent through the canopy; a black tunnel edged with scorched leaves and charred branches. At the terminus of the devastation, crumpled against the base of an ancient beech tree, rested the smoking remains of the aircraft. Coughing and sputtering on the ground halfway between the two soldiers and the wreckage was the American pilot, having ejected from the cockpit mere seconds before impact.

  His flight seat was only a short distance away, being slowly consumed by flames. His parachute was also on fire. The flames surged over the billowing silk and quickly up the suspension lines as if they were lit fuses as the pilot rolled around on the ground, fighting to pry off his helmet and visor, which had slid too low over his face and was now stuck over his eyes.

  Blake started for the struggling man but Kenishiro grabbed his arm.

  The pilot finally succeeded in prying off his helmet. His wild hair was prematurely white, as was his thick handlebar mustache. Piercing blue eyes blazed with untamable fury as he whip-glanced at his surroundings. His gaze paused momentarily on Blake and Kenishiro, who stood a good distance away, and landed finally on his ruined plane.

  With a pained, guttural roar, the pilot ripped off the flaming parachute suspension lines attached to his flight suit and produced an Ithaca 37 pump-action shotgun with pistol grip from a leather holster on his back. He pumped a round into the chamber and screamed as he blew a head-sized chunk of bark off the beech tree looming over his plane.

  After vanquishing that particular foe, the pilot stumbled about drunkenly, muttering incoherent slurs and discharging his
shotgun at invisible attackers, often hitting only the ground. He took particular interest in a row of rotting tree stumps, which he addressed with somber decorum before blowing the tops off each one in turn while shouting racial slurs at the splintered remains.

  Having defeated the non-existent Japanese onslaught and using up all of his ammunition, the pilot collapsed against the base of a tree, sobbing heavily as he withdrew a metal flask from his flight suit, only to be devastatingly defeated upon finding it empty.

  His blue eyes, the fury within having been somewhat tempered by his recent battle, landed once more on Blake and Kenishiro. The pilot’s bushy white mustache rose over a weak smile, and he began to laugh.

  “It’s all finished now, boys,” he said, waving them closer. “It’s all done now.” As Blake and Kenishiro approached, the pilot raised his empty shotgun and jabbed the barrel in the direction of the splintered stumps. “Blasted the hell out of them, eh? Been tracking this squad ever since we chased ‘em out of Los Alamos, the slippery little pricks. Thought they could come crawling back to the homeland. Pah!”

  He hummed to himself for a while, smiling. His cheeks flushed red with some personal contentment, and he looked up at the sky.

  “Not so bad out here,” he mused. “Quiet. You boys ever been to Peleliu?”

  Blake and Kenishiro remained silent.

  “Jap island,” the pilot said. “I was there.” Emptiness took his expression and his face slackened while he remembered. “Beautiful from above. Like a small heaven on earth. Water so clear. Blues and greens and the whites of those sandy beaches. And the red. So much red, boys, you’d think you fell into a paint bucket full of it. Don’t go, boys. Stay the hell away from Peleliu.”

  “We’re headed to Aomori,” Blake said.