United States of Japan

by Peter Tieryas

  “How did they eventually find out?”

  Wakana tapped his staff against the ground. “They still haven’t.”

  Ishimura’s surprised reaction pleased Wakana, who laughed heartily. “You know where Yoshioka is, don’t you? Don’t answer. Perhaps later, you and I can have lunch as professor and student. You can take me to a place where we may happen to run into a subject I am looking for.”

  “Perhaps, sir.”

  Nomoto entered and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Mutsuraga will be arriving shortly. He asks that you wait in his office.”

  Wakana twirled his mustache again. “Lead the way.”

  10:08AM

  Wakana waited almost two hours. He reviewed personnel reports during his wait. The lieutenant colonel’s office had photos of himself, his wife, and their daughter, traveling to various places throughout the USJ and Asia. His wife was a jovial brunette named Meredith who was half-Italian, half-Japanese. Her father served as a trade official at the Long Beach Ports and her mother had been one of the main administrators for the tonarigumi (neighborhood association) in the area. Mutsuraga’s daughter, Claire, was considered a genius with porticals, much like her father. There was a general theme of mahogany, the walls covered by maps of the USJ and the Germanic Americas as well as obscure programming equations.

  Lieutenant Colonel Mutsuraga had a stern look about him when he arrived. His hair was grizzled and he possessed a sturdy frame like a bear. The breast of his uniform was covered with accolades and commendations, and he wore both his ceremonial swords. He had grim eyes, thick hands, and an overbearing confidence in his steady pose. He said in a booming voice, “You can’t be serious about closing all my interrogation rooms.”

  “I’m very serious,” Wakana replied. “Command told me to deal with the George Washingtons, sir. Your torture chambers are an impediment to that.”

  “Those chambers have been an invaluable source of information.”

  “Much of it faulty. Under torture, anyone will confess to anything, including lies.”

  Mutsuraga frowned. “How does putting one of my soldiers on trial help us win?”

  “By listening to what the GWs want. They’ve asked for five things. Closing the torture chambers was their highest priority. Justice for those massacred at Balboa Park was their second. I am going to give them Yoshioka, sir.”

  “Yoshioka’s one of our best soldiers.”

  “He had over two thousand civilians killed. Unarmed civilians, sir. If they’d been soldiers, I’d be handing him an award.”

  “What’s to be the result of the trial?”

  “There is overwhelming evidence of his guilt. If it can be disproven, he will be freed.”

  “If not?”

  “Execution, sir, per regulation 3432.23.”

  Mutsuraga took out a cigarette. “Are you out of your mind?” he snapped. “Executing an officer of the USJ for firing on the natives? There’s a battle going on here, major.”

  “And, respectfully, you’re not winning, sir. Short of massacring all of them, you’re in for a long, debilitating conflict unless you start working with the ‘natives’.”

  “You realize who Yoshioka’s uncle is?”

  “My loyalty is to the Empire and the Emperor, not any admiral, sir.”

  “What do you think will happen if you execute Yoshioka?”

  “In conjunction with meeting four of the other requirements demanded by the George Washingtons, I’m hoping for a dialogue.”

  “A dialogue?”

  “In good faith.”

  “You want to negotiate with traitors and sacrifice our own soldiers in the process?”

  “Your own gaming simulation predicted this would become inevitable, sir,” Wakana pointed out. “And there are honorable ones among them. They are courageous, resourceful, and resolved, and some have reached out in the hopes of negotiation. Fortunately, their demands are not unreasonable. But they refuse to talk without resolution on the Balboa Park matter. Yoshioka disobeyed orders. He was specifically told not to provoke the crowd and, most definitely, not to fire on them.”

  “You are an unusual breed of officer, Wakana,” Mutsuraga said.

  “Where is Captain Yoshioka?”

  “He’s away on a mission.”

  “Where?”

  “At this moment, that mission is classified. When he becomes available, I will let you know.”

  “Sir, that’s–”

  “He’s on a mission that is of the utmost importance to the Empire!”

  “But, sir–”

  “Know your place, major,” the Lieutenant Colonel barked.

  “Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir,” Wakana said, bowing.

  “I will notify you when Yoshioka returns. You may do with the interrogation rooms as you please.”

  Major Wakana stood up and bowed gratefully. “May I make one more request, sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “I would like to place Lieutenant Ishimura under my direct command for the duration of my stay here.”

  Mutsuraga laughed. “I don’t think the Washingtons would want Ishimura executed.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “He’s a coward who’s more concerned about women than his duty.”

  “So you have no objection to me taking him?”

  “You’re going to have him executed too?”

  “No, sir. He was a former student and I’d like his help in coordinating leisure activities for some of my soldiers that are being transferred in.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Thank you for your patience, sir,” Wakana said. He turned around and left, shutting the door behind him. As he did, he thought about the Kempeitai report that Mutsuraga’s wife was having an affair with a George Washington leader who called himself Andrew Jackson. Her presence, and absence, was aggravating him and clouding his judgment. It troubled Wakana to think of it. He never wanted to be in a position where he had to question the people he loved.

  11:25AM

  “The steak salad there is incredible, sir,” Beniko said.

  “First of all, drop the sir. Second, I’m not a big fan of salads.”

  “They will make you a convert. Seared ribeye, roasted potatoes, cremini mushrooms, shaved parmesan, sliced Asian pears, and a lemon Dijon vinaigrette served over mixed greens. Toasties makes the best damn salads I’ve ever had.”

  “If only my grandfather could have lived to have seen this. He used to talk about how much they had to ration during the War,” Wakana said. “Every week, they’d run out of basic goods like flour or sugar and they never saw any more again until after the War.”

  “To the victor cometh the food.”

  Tijuana District had been a tourist destination until the civil revolt broke out. Even now, abetted by heightened security, it was a popular place to party. There were two security checks, both heavily guarded. Despite riding in a military issued vehicle, they were scanned. Bomb-sensitive dogs patrolled between the cars and there was a group of people that had been arrested sitting in steel cages, handcuffed and gagged. Beyond, there were fancy resorts, Japanese signs among all the high-rise hotels and discotheques. Soldiers, random security inspections, looming mechas, and helicopter sweeps were reminders of the chaos outside of its borders.

  “Have you been to the Cancun?” Ben asked.

  “No, what is it?”

  “One of the top resorts. It has the biggest indoor swimming pool in the world and dolphins to paddle along. It’s amazing.” Ben pointed to another hotel that looked as though it was a gigantic diamond and had huge crowds. “That’s the Gemini. It has all sorts of roller coasters inside. The lines aren’t too bad because it’s still early afternoon. By night time, you’ll have to wait two hours for every ride.”

  “The whole area is going to get busier?”

  “There’s going to be triple this in the evening and more are flying in to celebrate for the holidays,” Ben said.

  “Aren’t they worried about
the rebels?”

  “They aren’t going to let some rebels ruin their fun.”

  Toasties was in a shopping mall. Ben parked their car in the Japanese section that was near the entrance and next to hundreds of scooters. Men and women were dressed in sporty summer wear in the resort environment, many just wearing swimsuits. Tourists from the mainland snapped photos of everything via their porticals and Wakana found himself amused by their gawking commentary and their awed voices. “Sugoi,” or “awesome,” he kept on hearing.

  “They have a whale show at the Sea Palace that’s pretty impressive,” Ben said. “I know one of the trainers and she can give us a backstage tour. You’d be surprised how smart the animals are. She thinks it’s wrong for us to keep them in captivity as show animals.”

  At Toasties, Beniko talked to the hostess, an attractive woman in short jeans and a bikini top. “I thought you were going to be out of town for the holidays?” she asked Ben.

  “Change in plans,” he replied. “I’m showing the major around town.”

  She shook her head. “There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

  “I know. Later.”

  Her arms were crossed. “I’ve been trying to reach you the whole week.”

  Ben offered an awkward simper. “My portical is messed up on base. The Washingtons are scrambling all our lines.”

  She led them to their table. The restaurant was packed. She pinched him. “Don’t leave without talking to me,” she said, before returning to the front of the restaurant.

  “Friend of yours?” Wakana asked.

  “Something like that,” Ben said, in a tone of helplessness. “She’s too wild for me, sir.”

  Wakana laughed.

  The waiter brought green tea and the menu. Another waiter carried meat colored black and white.

  “What is that?” Wakana asked.

  “Fried skunk,” Ben replied. “That over there is grasshopper skewer and it lies heavy on those monkey brains. I heavily recommend those if you’re into something a bit experimental.”

  “I used to cook grasshoppers,” Wakana said. “When I was eight, we’d go out to a forest behind the rail tracks near my school. We captured a dozen grasshoppers, cut off their legs. They couldn’t get away and we’d grill them. I loved eating them with wasabi.”

  “You want me to order some for you?”

  Wakana shook his head. “Why don’t you recommend something for me?”

  Ben ordered for them both.

  “So Yoshioka likes this place?” Wakana asked.

  Ben shook his head. “Captain Yoshioka’s taste in food is very simple – soy sauce, rice, and a boiled egg. He views anything else as an unnecessary extravagance.”

  “Then why did you bring me here?”

  “I thought you wanted a good lunch.”

  Wakana laughed again. “You enjoy being an officer?”

  “I try, s–” He stopped himself from saying “sir.”

  “And Captain Yoshioka? Does he enjoy being an officer?”

  “For different reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  Ben stirred the tea in his cup. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s the food.”

  Wakana sipped on his tea. “I tend to have simple tastes as well.”

  “Oh?”

  “I eat whatever my wife cooks me.”

  Ben chuckled. “Is your wife stationed in San Diego?”

  “She’s raising my two boys in Kauai.”

  “Do you see her often?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. It’s tough for her because she gave up her career and I’ve been away most of the last four years in Vietnam.”

  “How are things going there?”

  “Officially, everything is wonderful. Unofficially, classified.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. Command wants to make sure we avoid that kind of quagmire here, especially as Tijuana is such a popular destination. There’s hope for a peaceful resolution. No one wants a repeat of Saigon.”

  “What do you want here?”

  Wakana looked at Beniko. “What any good soldier wants. Peace.”

  The waiter brought the salads. Wakana stared at his askance, then took a bite. His face lit up. “This is excellent.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “No, seriously. I’ve never had anything like this.”

  “You should take some for the road.”

  “I might do that.”

  Wakana ate his steak and savored the mushrooms. “Have you seen much of Mutsuraga’s war simulation?”

  “We all have.”

  “It’s amazing to think he began programming this at BEMAG, a perfect war game measuring all the parameters of a situation to predict the outcome.”

  “Statistical likelihoods,” Ben said. “It’s susceptible to serious margins of error.”

  “But still impressive.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “How exactly does it work?”

  Ben took out a portical from his pocket and flipped it open. An interface up showed in green text against a black background. It read: “Operation San Diego.”

  “How are you able to connect to the kikkai without a wire?” Wakana asked.

  “New tech developed just south of BEMAG. Wireless porticals that pick up the kikkai so you can take them anywhere.” Ben typed in his name and password. “Right now, the graphical power of the porticals are limited, but you can see it represented by this soldier.” There was a cartoony depiction of a Japanese soldier. “I can input the date, the type of enemies I’m expecting, psychological factors, weather conditions, geographical data, any anomalies that pop up, even the eating habits of the officers.” He punched in random variables, not being selective about his choices, concentrating on getting through the long list of options. “That’s the bare minimum for a scenario. When we do our actual simulation for battle, we spend days, even weeks, planning. Then we let it play out and study what the AI does.”

  “Is it as accurate as they say?”

  “Nowhere near what they want. But they’re working on the programming and by the end of the year, it’s supposed to support fifty thousand more variables.”

  On the portical, soldiers fought across buildings. Men and women dressed as “George Washingtons” with their white wigs killed themselves, blowing up buildings and cars with them. “Were you here during the first volley?”

  “I only saw it on the news,” Ben answered.

  Wakana thought of the thousands dressed in the colonial wigs, charging San Diego’s City Hall and blowing themselves up. A black man claiming to be the Founding Father, George Washington, made one demand. “Hand San Diego over to us or we will fight until all of us are dead.”

  “What do the simulations say about our chances of winning?”

  Ben finished his tea. “I’m not involved with that part of the planning.”

  “It predicted either the GWs will destroy the city, or we will have to kill three hundred thousand people to impose total control, executing indiscriminately in the hopes of wiping them out.”

  “The program could be wrong.”

  “It could be.” Wakana cracked his knuckles. “It’s fascinating that in Mutsuraga’s school records, programming was one of his weakest subjects. There were even those who doubted whether Mutsuraga really wrote the thing himself.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” Ben said. Wakana took note of his unconscious “sir” and the way he lowered his gaze when he answered.

  “Of course not. I’ve heard they want to make a consumer version of the game and let people play out various battles,” Wakana mused.

  “I’ve heard that too. The graphical leaps on porticals are accelerating at a rate no one expected.”

  “Who would have thought? Our wars played out by children as ‘portical games’.”

  “It’s effective propaganda disguised as entertainment.”

  Wakana looked over and saw the hostess staring in their
direction. “What’s she want to talk to you about?”

  “Leaving her boyfriend.”

  “For you?”

  Ben rubbed his head. “I think so.”

  Wakana wagged his finger. “You are a troublemaker, lieutenant.” He finished his salad. “Are you going to help me find Captain Yoshioka?”

  “Have you visited the Musashi Temple yet?”

  “No, though my father told me I should visit while I’m here.”

  “It’s only a ten minute walk away. It’s worth a trip,” Ben said.

  “Let’s pay our respects.”

  “Do you mind if we take the back exit?”

  “Not at all.”

  12:43PM

  The Musashi Miyamoto shrine was split into five areas. Wakana and Ishimura were in a section that had small waterfalls, fountains, and steps designed to evoke a semblance of liquid armor. There were statues of samurai, deities, and swords. The temple was made entirely from glass with water flowing between the panes, kanji characters explicating the old warrior’s philosophy. They reached the altar and Wakana grabbed a stick of incense.

  “Do you remember your Musashi?” Wakana asked Ishimura.

  Ben shook his head. “I’m worthless with the sword.”

  Wakana placed his staff against a column, took out his sword, held it with both hands in front of him, and bowed. He quietly murmured some words and bowed again.

  “My father made me study Musashi every morning,” Wakana said.

  “He was a soldier?”

  “A farmer,” Wakana replied. “But he raised me to be a soldier.”

  “Why?”

  “So that farmers like him wouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of soldiers.”

  A group of monks entered the temple and began chanting.

  “Have you ever visited the Ise Grand Shrine?” Wakana asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “They rebuild it every twenty years as a remembrance of the ephemeral nature of all things – Wabi-sabi. Before we won the Pacific War, we fought for dominance on the mainland. Now, we control territory from one end of the earth to the other. And yet, we cling to our idiosyncrasies, not acting like rulers.”