I Am Become Death

by Rocco Ryg

  I AM BECOME DEATH

  Rocco Ryg

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2011 Rocco Ryg

  Cover photo by Aaron Miller

  Follow Rocco Ryg on Twitter

  or write him at roccoryg@yahoo.com

  Book 1

  I AM BECOME DEATH

  PROLOGUE

  My mother died today.

  We knew it was coming. I tried to suppress the knowledge that cancer would kill the woman who had raised and nurtured me, but I couldn’t hold it in when the moment came. I stood by her cheap bed in that dreary hellhole of a hospital while my bald, gaunt mother held my trembling hand. My father held her other hand, his eyes just as wet as my own. One year ago, when the doctors gave her the news, she was the most gorgeous woman in Japan, but now she was a shell of a human being… her muscles atrophied and her rosy cheeks turned to chalk.

  She looked at Dad and asked, “What time is it, dear?”

  Dad looked at his watch, a present from their tenth anniversary. “2:15.”

  Mom smiled. “Two minutes. Just as expected.” She then turned to me, her flickering eyes revealing the determination she had raised me to embrace.

  I couldn’t understand her. When the doctors told her of the inoperable tumor, she just nodded as though it wasn’t a big deal. She spent the next year performing her regular routine of meditating in our living room and reading manga. Her approaching death didn’t bother her one bit. “Mom”, I asked, “Why are you so calm?”

  She grinned and replied, “I’ve seen this moment, Chikara. Over and over again. And I’ve seen you go through hell and suffer, but come out the woman I wanted you to be. I’m so proud of you. You’re my hero.”

  The answer made me choke in tears. She had called me a hero all my life. She read manga and American comic books to me when I was a toddler, and stories of King Arthur and Hercules when I grew older. She discussed Luke Skywalker, Superman and Yagyu Jubei at dinner, and she read about Yamato-Takeru and Miyamoto-Musashi to pre-schoolers when she could. I grew tired of it, but she kept on calling me her little hero.

  “Mom, I’m not a hero. I’m just a…”

  “Not yet, Chikara. Not until you find the spark,” said Kaminari Mika, her voice hoarse and weak. The life-support machine’s pulse grew fainter, and so did mine. “The video will explain everything. I’m so sorry, but it’s the only path to save the world. Believe in your friends… control the spark… and you will win.”

  My father, unable to contain his grief any longer, gripped her hand tighter than I did. I thought she had lost her mind in her final moments. “Mom, what does that mean? I don’t understand.”

  She closed her eyes and smiled, her pulse dropping even lower. With her last breaths, she sighed, “Masakazu… I love you. Chikara… you’ll make it all better.”

  And she was gone.

  Dad and I hugged and cried in that room for hours, even after the staff covered her face with the sheets and wheeled her down to the morgue. When we had finally sobbed every last drop, we drove home. He immediately set up the shrine he had built and lit the candles around her pictures, illuminating the lovely face that looked so different from the pale ghost we had lost. He prayed for her soul, but I didn’t want to. I just wanted to lock myself in my room, curl up on my bed and never come out. I wanted my mom to walk through the door and hug me like she always had.

  But she would never walk through the door again. She would never read me stories of heroes, or see me leave for college, or welcome my future children. I hugged Dad goodnight, brushed my teeth and walked to my room to write this entry. Dad is still at the shrine. I can’t blame him.

  I can’t forget what she said to me today. “Find the spark”, “save the world”... she was delusional. The cancer stole her mind before it stole her life.

  Of course, she’s always been right before.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE WILL

  Chikara’s alarm clock woke her up from a hazy dream. She rolled out of bed and started her daily routine of thirty jumping jacks, twenty push-ups and twenty sit-ups, followed by twenty slashes with her favorite bokken (wooden sword). Her collection of samurai posters watched her cut through invisible enemies with the skill and speed of an ancient warrior. With each swipe, she imagined her animated heroes in the frames cheering her on and telling her to move in for the kill.

  With her workout complete, she changed into her school uniform and headed to the kitchen, where her father had a plate of waffles and eggs waiting for her. He was reading a manga, which featured some young green-haired girl in a sailor suite waving a magic wand. “Dad, how can you read that junk?”

  Masakazu said, “It was your mother’s. The story isn’t so bad. She has to save the country from…”

  “Let me guess, demons? How original.”

  “Yes. You know, she only got into them after you were born. I never understood her. Do you remember when she used to read these to you?”

  “I’m going to school. I’ll be back in time for the will.” She grabbed a waffle and headed out the door. Masakazu could see that his daughter was still not ready to talk about their loss.

  She stopped by Renka’s house to pick her up. The two had walked to school together for years, but on this particular day, her friend wasn’t waiting in front of the house. She rang the doorbell and asked Mrs. Kusaka if Renka was home, but the housewife answered, “No, Renka left a little early this morning. She said she wanted to watch some meeting today.” Chikara thanked her and continued on her way, wondering what kind of meeting could’ve attracted her best friend’s interest.

  When she arrived at Eisai High, her sharp ears picked up a slight rumble in the bushes on either side of the walkway. Her hand crept to her wooden sword. She doubted this would be too much of a hassle. Almost on cue, six young men leapt out of the bushes, each equipped with an identical wooden sword. The leader of the pack, an annoying lunkhead who had asked her out on far too many occasions, said, “Kaminari Chikara, we challenge you to a fight to the death.”

  “Perfect,” said the armed schoolgirl. “Something to help clear my head.”

  Thirty seconds later, all six members of the Male Kendo Club lay on the concrete clutching their limbs and catching their breath. “We surrender! Forgive us!” said Kidou Hiroshi, the leader who just couldn’t cut it.

  She put her weapon back in its sheath and replied with a hint of disdain, “One of you nicked my shoulder a bit this time. You’re getting better.” A crowd of fellow students gathered nearby and clapped for their samurai hero with each chop, punch and kick. She took a bow and joined her friends, the Female Kendo Club, who happily traded a fist-bump with their glorified leader.

  Takako, a junior, said, “Way to go, Chikara-san.”

  “I knew you could do it, Kaminari-sama,” said Mayumi, the freshman of the club.

  “Of course she could. She does it every day,” said Mizuho, a senior.

  She let out a slight laugh, thankful for her friends’ support but unwilling to show it. “Thank you, ladies. Anybody seen Renka around? She wasn’t at her house today.”

  Kayoko, a junior and second-in-command of the club, answered, “Funny you should ask. That socialist guy is giving another speech, and I saw your friend standing in the front.”

  “Renka? Are you sure?”

  “Teddy bear purse and everything.”

  “This calls for drastic action. Lead the way.”

  Kayoko led the quintet to the high school’s auditorium, where the Democratic Youth League of Japan Club was holding one of their demonstrations. As the youth wing of the Japanese Communist Party, the League advocated dismantling all United States bases from the country, abolishing nuclear weapons worldwide, apologizing for Japan’s a
ctions in World War II and “defending the interests of the people” against corporate rule, especially from foreign entities. The worldwide socialist organization had its own local chapter at Eisai High, and its few members made good use of their resources through early-morning speeches and aggressive promotion in fliers and newsletters. The chapter was just one of thousands scattered throughout the planet under the World Federation of Democratic Youth, bringing a left-wing viewpoint to the masses through strong organization and communication.

  That morning, the young activists protested the continued American presence in Japan, an occupation that had stood since the end of the war. A banner reading “Troops out now!” hung across the top of the stage, and the podium displayed a flag of the hammer and sickle, communism’s infamous rallying symbol. The branch’s leader, Kagekuro Gen, was certainly the most elegant speaker of the club. Charismatic, uncompromising, quick with a comeback and pretty handsome (according to the girls’ locker room gossip), Kagekuro always stood at the forefront of the debate, ready to bring his radical politics to the stage.

  As they searched for their prodigal friend, Chikara and her kendo club pushed past the crowd of curious onlookers. Most, like their parents, were strict traditionalists who thought the left-wingers were Russian-sympathizing crazies. Others came for a laugh, having no interest in the political realm. Others were actually interested in what he had to say, perhaps out of general concern or just youthful rebellion. As she searched for her scatterbrained friend, Chikara tried to block out Gen’s radical speech.

  “It has been sixty-seven years since the end of the war. Sixty-seven years since the dropping of the bombs that destroyed our cities and killed our people, when America neutered the imperialist military of Japan and forced it into peace. Three score and seven years ago, the United States began their occupation that they do not intend to end.”

  The disinterested students in the crowd chattered away.

  “This guy is so full of it.”

  “I don’t care. They never bother me.”

  “I kind of like those soldiers. Foreigners are cute.”

  “You’re so slutty.”

  Gen had gotten used to heckling and taunts from the audience after years of practice. “I urge you to tell Parliament that Japan has learned from the mistakes of the past and no longer needs its American nanny to keep us out of trouble.”

  “Go back to North Korea, commie.”

  “Screw you, Yankee-slave.”

  Kusaka Renka, her teddy bear purse at her side, stood in the front row and watched Kagekuro deliver his lines. She didn’t really listen to his arguments. She just admired his calm, collected demeanor and impressive delivery. His persuasive voice could convince anyone of anything. Renka put her mind on autopilot and let his strong, committed speeches take her to a happy place.

  A hand grabbing her shoulder snapped her out of her trance. “What? Oh, Chikara… hi.”

  “What the hell, Renka? Don’t tell me you’re going all Lenin on me.”

  “Come on, Chi. You know my parents are moderates.”

  “Then why are you listening to these weirdoes?”

  Her brain cranked into overdrive searching for a credible excuse. “I… feel sorry for them and want to understand their pain.”

  Chikara flashed the suspicious look, a face her friend knew all too well. She could tell something was up. “Okay. Want to compare notes for government?”

  “Sure.” Renka followed Chikara out of the auditorium. She looked at Gen one more time on the way out. When his eyes unintentionally met hers, she jerked her head back at light speed.

  ***

  Later that day, Chikara and Renka sat next to each other in class. They were fortunate enough to attend a school that allowed students to sit in their chosen order, as most other schools in the country conformed to strict procedures and allowed children very little freedom.

  Perhaps we should pause to explain the Japanese school system to our Western friends. Students stay in one class while the teachers rotate around the rooms, a reversal from the typical American or European institution. This is supposed to create a tight knit group, which is considered to be more important than the individual in a collectivist culture. When thirty to forty students spend so much time together, the class develops a symbiotic bond that will prepare them for the adult world, where being part of the group leads to success. Unfortunately, this also means one must spend eight hours with people they will never get along with. While the gods blessed Chikara by putting Renka in the same class, they also played a cruel joke by putting her sworn enemy there as well.

  She tried her best to avoid eye contact with Nagasado Michiko. Since elementary school, the two had been at each others’ throats. Their history was a never-ending cycle of vicious insults, “accidental” spills on dresses and occasional blows to the face. Michiko had the amazing ability to always get what she wanted with nothing more than a charming face, a direct command or an implied gesture, while Chikara had to work for everything she earned. She never understood what made Michiko so persuasive. Maybe it was her taller height, her natural beauty, or her out-of-place gray eyes that no other Japanese person she knew shared. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t wait to graduate at the end of the semester. Unless the gods played another cruel joke, she would never have to even think about “Empress Michiko” again.

  Michiko sat in the back of the room, surrounded on both sides by Chisato and Yukiko. The student body called them her “henchmen” for good reason. The trio discussed the issues most important to them, such as who was a bitch and who was beneath them, while Chikara tried to block them out with conversations of her own. She told Renka, “You know, our culture has existed for thousands of years, and it works just fine. I don’t see how we need big government to change everything. What’s next, banning whale fishing?”

  Renka said, “For God’s sake, Chi, I’m not a Communist. You’re like… uh… Joe McCarsey, or something.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, that American politician who called everyone a Communist. I read about it.”

  “I just want to make sure my ‘bestest friend’ doesn’t fall in with the bad crowd. Like when you tried that marijuana.”

  Renka glanced around to make sure nobody heard. “Oh, that was one time, and it was harmless.”

  “You were lucky I took pity on you and told your parents you spent the night over.”

  “Look, I’m not going to be a left-wing nut, okay! My parents are with the Democratic Party of Japan, and that’s all I know. I just went to see Kagekuro-san speak and…”

  This Freudian slip captured Chikara’s attention. “And what?”

  “He’s… very convincing.” Renka’s cheeks turned a humiliating shade of red, revealing her true intentions.

  “Oh… my god… you like him.” In her surprise, Chikara forgot to whisper. The class looked at Renka and giggled. Even Michiko and her allies found it funny, but didn’t make a rude comment (by some miracle). Renka’s cheeks became redder. “Thanks, Chi.”

  Mrs. Minsei, the class’s government teacher, walked into the room and put her books on the table. The class stood and bowed, the cultural sign of respect, and sat back down. The attractive middle-aged woman politely bid the class good morning and started that day’s lesson. “And so the Meiji Constitution took effect November 29, 1890… remember that date… and was based upon the Prussian model of constitutional monarchy. The Emperor once again became the embodiment of Japan, but the National Diet was established to represent the people by free election. Does anybody know the name of the movement that pressured for a republican legislature?”

  A few students raised their hands. Minsei called on Hibana Taichi, the tech-savvy genius who sat behind Renka (he used to sit in front of her, but his out-of-control head of hair blocked her view and made her ask him to switch). Taichi stood and answered, “The Freedom and People’s Rights Movement.”

  Minsei said, “Correct. Now, the Diet was divided into
two houses: the House of Representatives and the House of Peers. The Upper House Peers were members of the imperial family, important aristocratic families and people appointed by the Emperor. The Lower House Representatives were elected directly by the people.”

  Renka’s friend Oka Nikki raised her hand. “Sensei?” When called upon, she rose. “Is it true only males with enough property could vote?”

  Minsei laughed. “Sadly, yes. Imagine the problems we could have avoided if they let the women select the leaders.” The girls chuckled while the boys rolled their eyes. Minsei added another joke, “You know, in America, black men got the right to vote before white women. So even the former slaves had more rights than us.” This time, the entire class laughed.

  “Anyway, the Diet could initiate legislation and approve laws and the budget. The independent judiciary set up the court system. The Emperor was the head of the state and, according to Article 3, “sacred and inviolable.” He had power over the Imperial Army and Navy and had Ministers of State that answered solely to him. After the war, the Meiji Constitution was scraped and replaced with the current one, the Pacifist Constitution. This law replaced the absolute monarchy with the system of liberal democracy, and reduced the Emperor to ‘the symbol of the State and of the unity of the people’. The Allies sought to change Japan’s fundamental system of government rather than just punish us with reparations.”

  Chikara hated the subject. Even after sixty-seven years of peace, the scars of Japan’s loss at the hands of the Allied forces ran deep, leaving a permanent wound in the country’s heart. Most Japanese would rather not think about the tragedies of the past. They’d ignore them and hope the terrible memories go away, just as the descendants of any losing country would do.

  Her worst memory, after her mother’s final moment, was seeing her grandfather at his weakest. He had gone to fight for the emperor at the ripe age of nineteen, and gave his left arm in the service of his country. When she was a child, her father told her about his courage and dedication, and she longed to talk to him about the war and everything he saw. When she finally got the chance, he became uncomfortable. He went upstairs, looking glum and morose, but the curious child wouldn’t let him get away without hearing a story.