United States of Japan

by Peter Tieryas

  Ben switched lanes.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Ben asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you bringing me along?”

  “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

  “I’m not usually the officer of choice for important missions.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think you would know the answer to that better than me.”

  “It puzzles me, Ishimura,” Wakana said.

  “What does?”

  “Your hypocrisy. You would report your own parents for planning against the Empire, but you would not kill a Mexican prisoner for your officer field training. You’ve never directly killed a man with your own hands, have you?”

  Ben shook his head.

  “Do you ever regret reporting your parents?” Wakana asked.

  “They were planning against the Empire. What’s there to regret?”

  Wakana considered his answer. “You could have feigned ignorance,” he said, and there was an accusatory tone in his voice.

  “It wasn’t an easy choice. And respectfully, sir, I don’t appreciate having it questioned.”

  “Of course not. Forgive me,” the major said. “But it didn’t make life easy, did it? Outwardly, everyone praised you, but no one trusted you again.”

  They went up a ramp onto a higher road. From there, they had a full view of downtown San Diego with its spiral buildings jutting upwards like artificial mountains stabbing the sky.

  “Which brings me back to my original question. Why bring me?” Ben asked again.

  “I want you to tell me why the lieutenant colonel really takes you everywhere with him.”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Your facade of stupidity and cavalier insouciance may fool others, but I–”

  The car windows suddenly shattered and there was a loud boom. In one of the buildings ahead, a pillar of fire clambered on top of itself. The shape of the cloud resembled a flower in bloom, the petals spreading ash and sporangias in a fiery pollination. Both their laps were covered with glass and there was blood on their faces. Most of the vehicles on the road had stopped.

  “That’s from the Stingaree,” Ben said.

  “I know,” Wakana said.

  “If Jackson was there–”

  “We need to get there fast!”

  Ben pushed the accelerator.

  3:16PM

  Even before they arrived, a military squadron had been dispatched, securing the grounds. The stores in the market had been decimated. Seared food stained the floor. Fruit cocktails were made from apples, oranges, and blood. Dust formed a cloud that acted as fog for the whole street. Injured people were wailing in pain, detached limbs cloistered together with canned goods. Conflagrations were still raging, though the fire services were fighting them. The ground started shaking. Wakana knew it portended the arrival of a mecha and approached a sergeant who was temporarily in charge.

  “Have any of the bodies been identified?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Do you have a body count yet?” he demanded.

  “No, sir.” The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t think there are many survivors. The GWs were having a rally and most of them were killed, sir.”

  “Any idea who carried this out?”

  “Not yet. Some officers earlier mentioned they would review the camera footage. The–”

  A soldier approached the sergeant and said, “They need you right away.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” the sergeant said, bowed, and sprinted away.

  The main hallway of the marketplace had collapsed and there was a pile of rubble where there had just been an informal meeting place. The frame lay exposed, its metallic bones stacked haphazardly in jutting disharmony. Destruction’s fractals vied for prominence, tubes and wiring ripped to shreds. The humans were as brittle as crushed bugs and the body parts were indistinguishable from the burnt concrete columns.

  “What do we do?” Ben asked.

  “Wait and confirm what I already know.”

  “What’s that?”

  Wakana crushed an eggplant with his staff and refused to answer.

  7:34PM

  His confirmation came a few hours later from an officer who carried out the remains of not only Andrew Jackson, but Meredith Mutsuraga, whose face had been smashed by a steel beam. At one point, a muscle spasm in her leg caused it to shake, but it was temporary. Wakana asked Ben to drive him back to headquarters.

  There was no traffic on the road because the military had issued curfew and tanks were guarding the freeways. When they tried to make their way back to the Otay base, they were informed, “All roads are closed.”

  Multiple mechas were patrolling the city.

  “You ever been in one of those?”

  Ben confessed, “No. I don’t have enough clearance.”

  “Give me a few minutes and we’ll get our own personal escort back home. They’re the safest way of entering a combat zone without getting hurt.”

  Wakana made a call on his portical and spoke sharply in Japanese.

  They drove back to the Stingaree and the mecha was already waiting, a gigantic suit of samurai armor that was painted black with red epaulets. Their car was barely the size of one of its toes. A ladder came down from its massive chest plate. The mecha was stationary, but heat was emanating from every part.

  “The Harinezumi, Torturer class, finest mecha around,” Wakana said. “Has the best damn pilot in the USJ too, Kujira.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Her. And that’s because she’s one of the USJ’s closely guarded secrets.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s so damn good. She grew up with a leg condition that required mechanical augmentation for her to walk. When she told her teachers she wanted to be a mecha pilot, they laughed at her. But her condition gave her a familiarity with mechas none of them could have anticipated.”

  “Is there another way up?” Ben asked, as he followed Wakana up the ladder, rung by rung.

  “You don’t like the exercise? I have a bad leg and I’m doing this.”

  “I don’t like heights.”

  “Are you serious, Ishimura?” Wakana asked.

  “I am.”

  “Then don’t look down.”

  It was a long climb and Ben had to stop several times to catch his breath. Wakana’s leg nearly buckled in three separate instances, but he suppressed the pain and forced himself to continue, refusing to let it hamper him.

  The plates were connected by flexible “skin” material, rigid pieces bending at the hinge joints. From below, the surface looked pristine. But closer, Wakana could see corrosion, dents from fights, and battle scars. Its face was a mix of a kendo and noh mask, death unleashed in dramatic artistry. Exhaust ports under the side fascias released heat and internal smoke.

  Gunfire rang out behind them. They could hear Americans barking orders. Several explosions marred the skyline. They arrived at the hatch and were relieved to have the armor of the mecha behind them as protection from the spray of bullets outside. The inside was metallic, smoky, and damp. The heat turned Wakana’s uniform into a sweaty rag and with only auxiliary lights to guide them, they were doused in red. The corridors were tight like that of a submarine, just enough space for them to traverse.

  “It’s like a good old fashioned sauna,” Ben said.

  “I could use a trip to an onsen bath right now.”

  “I know a few good places in Los Angeles. There’s one that serves the best tiger blowfish you’ll ever have.”

  “Even now, you’re thinking about food?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the only way I can keep myself from getting too depressed about the situation.”

  They came to another ladder they had to climb.

  “I miss Ise udon,” Wakana said. “My favorite noodles.”

  “I’ve never had them.”

  “I will have to take you sometime. T
here’s only a few places in Ise Shima that do it right.”

  “I would very much enjoy that,” Ben replied.

  They climbed up to the bridge. The entire ceiling was covered with porticals. In the center, thousands of wires connected into the body of the pilot. Kujira was in a gelatinous fluid shaped into a sphere, the chemicals easing transmission of commands from her nerves to the mecha. She could spin every direction in the circle, the wires long enough to compensate. It was useful as the whole room was a one-sided mirror she could look out. Information was on the circular three hundred sixty degree view, including heat signatures, technical data, and sensor readouts. Her face was covered by a neural interface that analyzed the data in even more detail.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Wakana said to her.

  “I was in the area,” Kujira replied through the communicator. “How’d you guys screw it all up again?”

  Wakana knew her “guys” wasn’t meant to be gender neutral. “That’s what I’m going to Otay to find out.”

  “There’s as many enemies of the Empire in the uniform as there are out of it.”

  “Careful,” Wakana said. “You know the cockpits are recorded.”

  “I don’t care. I dismantled everything I didn’t clear to be on board.”

  “Tokko have their ways.”

  “Fuck them,” Kujira said. “If they did a good enough job on the real criminals, we wouldn’t be in this mess again.”

  “Kujira–”

  “Since we’re all snails riding on the razor’s edge, we might as well say it as it is.”

  “That’s not the way it works,” Wakana reminded her.

  “Then let’s change it. I’m tired of having to choose between doing the horrible and more horrible.”

  “That’s the way of war.”

  “The–” She became quiet as she received orders. “We’re getting diverted.”

  “What’s going on?” Wakana asked.

  “The GWs are up to something.”

  They rolled east, the wheels allowing the mecha to move without damaging the road in its path. Most of the shorter buildings fit snugly underneath its crotch. Wakana had never seen San Diego from these heights. It was a grand city and downtown had an array of skyscrapers, apartments, and architectural marvels that were as striking for their beauty as they were for their unusual designs. Architects were given more leeway in the USJ – the outer territories in general – and from the massive planetarium to the municipal center that had a butterfly wing motif at its apex, San Diego was like a garden made of granite and wood. Wakana was especially interested in the conical library complex that he had only heard about until now, an underground archive of millions of rare American and European novels that had mostly been burned elsewhere by zealous Nazi and USJ censors. Although Wakana couldn’t see humans with his naked eye, the sensors picked up heat signatures. There were thousands of people populating the buildings. Kujira could magnify any point of focus, which she frequently did. The GWs had set up American flags all over to replace the red sun of the Empire. Red, white, and blue draped as graffiti over the walls of San Diego.

  Kujira’s attention went to a black blob that the scanners were having a difficult time analyzing. Three smaller mechas were already there, half the size of Kujira’s Harinezumi. They didn’t have any special colors distinguishing them and their armor plates were less ostentatious. Their locomotion was slower too, their joints more static.

  “What’s going on?” Kujira asked into the portical.

  “The homunculi are detecting something unusual,” a voice spoke back over the communicator.

  “What are homunculi?” Ben asked Wakana.

  “Robots driven by portical simulations.”

  “They’re a joke,” Kujira, who heard them, stated. “USJ command thinks they can replace us with simulated brains.”

  The homunculi were investigating the black amoeba-like anomaly, nebulous in shape, slowly growing.

  As soon as Kujira saw it on the screen, she said, “Order the homunculi back!”

  “That’s a negative,” the voice over the communicator replied.

  “That’s the camo-cover for the Panzer Maus IX Super Tanks. They won’t stand a chance. I need to get in there right now or–”

  “Stand down and let the homunculi handle it unless the situation gets out of control. We’re engaging the polyhedral deformation projector to–”

  “Are you all idiots?” Kujira yelled. “They’ll destroy your toys.”

  “You have your orders.”

  The cluster of dirt melted apart and revealed four enormous tanks. They were small compared to the mecha, but each had a massive cannon. The treads were their primary method of movement, though they had limbs on either side that helped their mobility and could be used as mechanical legs in unfriendly terrain. Their hulls were so thick, most bullets would bounce off. Even bombs and cannon fire would barely make a dent.

  “Those are old Germans tanks,” Ben said.

  “Looks like the GWs got hold of them off the black market,” Wakana said.

  “I thought only biomorphs could drive them.”

  Wakana had been in Afghanistan when the Germans sent out their biomorph-driven vehicles. They were people underneath, genetically manipulated, psychologically and physically mutilated for years until they become the ideal soldier, emotionless and totally loyal.

  “They must be fitted for the GWs. Kujira,” Wakana called. “Are they dangerous?”

  “They can be if you don’t know how to handle them.”

  “You do?”

  “My first fight against a Nazi was a biomorph. He killed my partner and nearly killed me too.”

  “How’d you survive?”

  “I finished it off with my old quadmecha. The Harinezumi is a hundred times stronger.”

  The tanks fired at the nearest homunculus. They weren’t just regular shells, but an unusual type of chemical that formed black webs around its prey and tried to penetrate every orifice of the robot. The homunculus tried to fight back, endeavoring to attack with its arm cannon. But the tanks fired in unison and ripped a hole in its armor. The dark goo penetrated the center of the machine, seeped into every hinge, and caused it to implode. Its broken parts fell on top of several houses and the sensor readings of hundreds of humans were crushed into millisecond flatlines.

  “A lot of people are going to die unnecessarily because some officer wants to prove their point about the stupid homunculus,” Kujira said. “Homunculus has no Yamato damashii.”

  “Why do you need honor if you’re a robot?” Ben asked.

  “Honor is the only thing that separates us from animals.”

  “Robots aren’t animals.”

  “They’re worse. They’re our flawed reflections.”

  The tanks went after the second homunculus, propelling what looked like a mix between a drill and a massive suction cup from a side rail gun. The extrusion latched onto the front of the robot’s chest, causing it to rupture. While the homunculus was smaller than the Harinezumi, it was still a huge piece of machinery. When it toppled over, it destroyed two buildings and knocked out multiple generators. The surrounding area lost all energy and the mottled lights turned into a vortex of death. More than a thousand people died according to the display stat.

  “Strap yourselves into the seats,” Kujira barked at Wakana and Ben.

  They took a seat in the left periphery and put on their arm and waist straps. They also donned helmets and fastened the body protection plates hanging above their seats.

  “The GWs must have foreign support. There’s no way they could have weapons like that on their own,” Wakana said.

  “But I thought you said it was the black marke–”

  “Italian black market. They funnel weapons for both sides, playing us off against each other. The Nazis sometimes use them to distribute aid to the GWs, needling us to see if there’s any weak points.”

  “That would be an act of war if it were proven.”


  “It never will be. Italian black market gives them deniability. We do the same to them.”

  The super tanks made mincemeat of the last homunculus, destroying it with a unified blow. They used their limbs to spin in place so that they could have faster mobility even in tight corridors. The robot struggled, firing every weapon at its disposal. It destroyed more of the city, including a random blast that landed directly on the library and caused it to explode.

  Wakana groaned. “The written ideas and beliefs of tens of thousands of people gone.”

  “Better books than people,” Ben noted.

  The tanks did not immediately turn to engage the Harinezumi. Instead, they started attacking the Americans.

  “Why are they attacking their own side?” Ben asked.

  Wakana couldn’t understand it either until he saw the scans of the interior of the tank. “The biomorph pilots must have been included.”

  “Can’t the GWs control them?”

  Wakana shook his head. “No one can control a biomorph once it’s been unleashed. That’s why the Germans gave up on them.” Wakana had read that thousands of the biomorphs had been abandoned after years of experimentation and preparation. Their fate after being deemed obsolete by the Germans was never determined, though it made sense that many of them were put on sale.

  “They’re coming for us!” Kujira warned them. She turned on the communicator. “The tanks are engaging me. I’m going to take them out. Order emergency evacuations for the whole area. There might be more and–”

  “That’s a negative,” Command replied back.

  “Why?”

  “Retreat from the area.”

  “What about the tanks?”

  “We’ll deal with them later.”

  “They’re going to attack the whole area.”

  “They’re not your concern.”

  Kujira looked back at the city, flipped off the communicator.

  “What’s going on?” Ben asked.

  “I think USJ command wants the biomorphs to keep on destroying the city,” Wakana suggested.

  With an unexpectedly graceful motion for such a big machine, Kujira unsheathed her fusion sword and moved towards the tanks. The first turned its attention to her and fired its cannon. Kujira dodged the attack and sliced an opening through the hull, using her other arm to keep on her toes. Inside the liquid sphere, Kujira moved like a ballerina through all the wires, deftly skipping from one position to another. The tank tried to break free, but Kujira sliced its cannon off with her sword, piercing, stabbing, and swinging in sharp arcs to incapacitate the rest. Wakana was relieved they’d been strapped in. Otherwise, they would have been hurtled to the back of the bridge.