V 07 - The Alien Swordmaster

by Somtow Sucharitkul (UC) (epub)

  “How long till we land?” Matt repeated his question at last, nervously eyeing Tomoko as she worked the controls of the skyfighter Would the Duke have allowed himself to be bested by kids and women like this?

  “Well,” Sugihara said, “I’ve bad news. We don’t actually land.”

  “I knew it! You are one of them—” Matt started to panic again.

  “No, no, no. It’s just that Narita Airport is crawling with red tape, with Visitors, and with converted people. No, I’m afraid we’re going to have to arrive in a somewhat more dramatic manner. Tomoko, where do they keep the parachutes in these things?”

  “Parachute? Rad!” CB exclaimed.

  “Parachute?” Matt said.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Matt darling,” Tomoko said. “It’s no big deal, jumping out of alien sky fighters. I do it all the time. Piece of cake.”

  Matt rolled his eyes.

  Chapter 13

  Lying once more prostrate upon the tatami-covered flooi; Minister Ogawa saw only the edge of an elaborately brocaded kimono. Upon a field of deep purple silk were stitched, in gold thread and filled in in garish reds and turquoises, scenes of unmitigated horror: lizards gnawing at the entrails of humans, lizards whose eyes were fiery yellow topazes sewn into the very lining of the robe. Beneath the outer kimono was a second and a third, each one more frightening than the last, it was a horrifying parody of the traditional Japanese bridal garments.

  Ogawa kept his face firmly on the floor; breathing in the heavy scent of old wood and fresh straw.

  “You do not look at my face?” the Lady Murasaki said. “Master; your—your brilliance blinds me, I—”

  “Look at me!”

  He jerked up his head.

  A scream escaped his lips, was quickly stifled, and he fell into the prostrate position once again.

  In that split second he had seen—

  She no longer even bothered to wear a human mask! Perched upon those impressive robes, the layer upon layer of brocade and fine fabrics, was the head of a reptile! And even as he retreated in horror he saw that Lady Murasaki had been daintily nibbling on—a human finger!

  “You do not like my appearance?” said Lady Murasaki.

  “I—you—my masters-—”

  “Orders have come from Fieh Chan. No more will we conceal our true natures from you lower beings. We are the lords and you the miserable serfs. No more of this masquerading. We need not lull your people into servile obedience, eh? We have you and other creatures like you to do the job for us. No. From now on we will concern ourselves only with the exercise of power: pure, naked, ineluctable power. Say it! Say that I am beautiful, that mine is the ideal form—that you are nothing but a lowly ape whose privilege it is to lift your filthy face from the dust and gaze with rapture into the face of a reptile—a truly sapient being—a god!”

  Memories of the old days flashed through Ogawa’s mind. He remembered his meetings with Fieh Chan. Fieh Chan had never made him feel so ... so despicable. Never! At the back of his mind a tiny thought stirred and would not rest, though his conditioning reared up to combat it, to push it back into the furthest recesses of his unconscious so that he would never be aware that some part of him still longed for freedom. . . .

  Quickly he began to murmur the words Murasaki had put into his mouth. “Yes, Lady Murasaki, your form is perfect, ineffable, and sublime. I am only an ape, I exist only to serve and feed you.”

  “Good. That’s more like it. And now the conversion of the Matsuzakaya department store in the Ginza—it is complete? And the official announcements, they have been made?”

  “Yes, my lady. Bills have been posted all over Tokyo about the nev . . . self-destruction center. Please, my lady, give me the honor of being the first to use the facilities.”

  “Denied!” Lady Murasaki grated.

  “But my shame—”

  “You will entertain no more selfish thoughts of doing away with your own life, you pathetic little cui; until / so decide. I am your feudal lord. None other shall possess your life.”

  "Hai, tono!”

  And Ogawa bowed and bowed, over and ovei; to the saurian creature who wore the robes of a lady of ancient lineage. . . .

  Alone in the private chamber of the secret Visitor stronghold, Lady Murasaki could not resist calling Wu Piao to gloat.

  “What!” Wu Piao said, taken aback. “You do not even bother with the human masks?” He still wore his, she saw in the static-filled screen.

  “I am not an ape-lover like Fieh Chan,” she said, wantonly disregarding the old policy of speaking a human language even when not in the humans’ presence. “I’m not sexually attracted to them; I’ve no desire to look like one. Now that Fieh Chan has conveniently disappeared 1 see no reason to keep up the pretenses. I was never keen on the idea of toadying to these aliens in any way. Furthermore, now that we have to wear the thermal pressure skins to avoid exposure to the planet’s contamination, it’s just too inconvenient to wear the ape masks as well.”

  “You’re taking a gamble,” Wu Piao said in Japanese. His caution, Murasaki thought, is touching to behold.

  “More than a gamble! Japan is entirely in my hands. Economy and technology have collapsed so much that it is entirely at my mercy. Its government is controlled by converts. I have already completed construction of a food-processing plant—taking advantage of these people’s propensity for suicide! It’s wonderful! We slaughter them and decontaminate them right there on the premises; then we process them. ”

  “But we have no way of shipping the food home as yet!” “Bah! When the home-world scientists discover a cure for this toxin-—and I am sure they will soon, considering how much more advanced we are than they—my sector will

  be the springboard from which they will control this world—not Los Angeles. And / will at last have a shot at the high command itself! Not to mention making a tidy profit from the prepackaged food.”

  “Your ambition is admirable,” said her colleague, and Murasaki noted with satisfaction the envy in Wu Piao’s voice. “But what if Fieh Chan should return?”

  “The possibility is negligible!” Murasaki responded haughtily. Wu Piao opened his mouth to object; she went on, “and I should not have to remind you that regulations state that in his absence, for whatever cause, his second officer has full authority to act in his behalf. And in this interim I happen to outrank you!”

  “I didn’t think,” Wu Piao said as he faded from the screen, “that you’d let me forget that for long.”

  Chapter 14

  Deja vu. That was the prevailing feeling in Tomoko’s mind. The falling out of the sky ... the distant flash of the exploding skyfighter ... the rice fields. Only, this time the sky wasn’t red with toxin. The toxin had settled, seeped into the earth’s foliage, penetrated its soil. And the rice was no longer the dayglo green of new rice, but a deeper colot; dark green turning to yellow. In the distant hills, peasants toiled in the terraced rice farms.

  CB and Matt kept looking around. The boy especially seemed moved to wonderment by the slightest thing.

  Things had changed since the last time Tomoko had crash-landed outside Tokyo. There had been a few cars on the highway then; now there were none. They walked. There was an abandoned gas station, its phone out of commission. A sign read:

  CLOSED

  BY EDICT OF THE SUPREME DIET OF JAPAN

  BY REASON OF THE GASOLINE CRISIS

  “So they’ve been cut off from the rest of the world,” Matt said when Sugihara had finished translating the hasty calligraphy of the billboard.

  “Let’s hurry on,” Tomoko said. “If we’re lucky we may reach the subway system by nightfall.”

  “What’ll we do for money?” CB said somberly.

  In response, Matt jingled his pockets. “Got them off those uniforms in our backpacks,” he said. “Sugihara says they’re some kind of subway tokens. They have an image of a reptile on them.”

  “Look!” CB said. “What’s that sign?”
He pointed to a handbill pasted on a crumbling wall. In front of il an elderly woman was weeping her heart out.

  Sugihara translated swiftly: "By order of the Ministry of Culture. Those desirous of ending their lives honorably because of disappointment in love, career failure, or Zen enlightenment are invited to apply at the Institute for Inner Peace, at the old Matsuzakaya department store on the Ginza. The rest of it is tom off,” he said.

  “What could it mean?” Matt asked anxiously.

  “I think it means that the traditional custom of ritual suicide has returned to this country . . . with a vengeance!”

  Sugihara turned to the old woman. “Why are you weeping?” he asked.

  “My husband . . . my children . . . they have sought inner peace,” she said. Tomoko could barely understand her through her tears.

  “That’s terrible!” Tomoko said in Japanese.

  “No, Tomoko,” Sugihara whispered. “You are only half Japanese. Perhaps you do not understand.”

  “I understand. From anthropology textbooks, I understand . . . but this is real life,” she said.

  “What are you guys talking about?” CB said.

  “Keep walking,” the old man said.

  They rode the subway to Meguro station. They found, because Tomoko did not know where else to go, the old anthropological institute. It was boarded up; no servant came to the door.

  “It’s dark. We’ve nowhere to sleep,” CB protested. At last someone came. The door creaked open. “Ach, Tomoko.” An old voice, a German accent. “Why have you come back here? You have come to hell itself. Who are these people, why did you bring people?”

  “Let me in, Professor Schwabauer,” Tomoko said. He did so. The house, once splendid, was in tatters. Quickly she introduced the others. “What happened here?” Schwabauer said, “It was terrible. They came, they took away everybody. For questioning, they said. I haven’t seen any of them since. I hid in a linen chest. They kept asking everyone about you, Tomoko. Why? What could they want with you?”

  “They want my husband,” Tomoko said.

  “Oh, it was horrible,” Schwabauer said, shuddering. “I never leave the building now. The food is running out.” “It’s all right, Professor;” Matt said. “We’re here to help you.”

  In the morning they went down to the Ginza. Each carried a small laser pistol, pilfered from the defunct sky fighter, in his clothing. The old man, not wanting to look too conspicuous, had donned a simple business suit.

  Long lines of people waited at the front doors of what had once been one of the most chic department stores in Tokyo. “The four of us look too suspicious together,” Sugihara said. “Why don’t you and CB go and wait in that sushi bar across the street? Because of our physical appearance, I think Tomoko and I will be less conspicuous.”

  “Right,” Matt said. He took CB by the hand and they crossed the street.

  The sushi bar sported a pennant on which characters were scrawled. The last had a long, wiggly tail. Matt knew that this was the sign for sushi, the delicate concoction of rice and raw fish that was a Japanese specialty. They used to have it at home all the time.

  There were two entrances to the restaurant, each covered with a cloth screen. The one to the left said:

  The one to the right said:

  “What does it mean?” CB said.

  Matt shrugged.

  “I guess one or the other will do,” he said, striding toward the door on the right.

  Two burly men barred his path. They wore the costumes of sixteenth century samurai: except that the Visitor logo was blazoned across the material of their uniforms!

  “Bijitaa dake!” one of them rasped, pointing to the doorway as if to say, “Can’t you read, you illiterate imbecile?”

  Matt bowed, the way he’d seen people do in samurai movies, and backed into the other doorway, pulling CB in after him.

  Tomoko walked up to the line. A stretch of the sidewalk had been cordoned off to keep the line under control. Grimfaced samurai with Visitor insignia strode back and forth, hands on sword hilts. Each had a glazed look in his eye that Tomoko knew had to be the result of traumatic, total conversion.

  “You, there!” One of them shouted at her “Out of the way!”

  “I only—”

  “Are you here to seek an honorable death? or are you just here to gawk?” the samurai shouted.

  “She is just watching,” Sugihara said, covering up for her in case her unidiomatic Japanese might give her away.

  “Very well.” The samurai turned away to bark at someone else.

  “What is it?” Tomoko whispered.

  “This is a terrible distortion of bushido,” Sugihara said. “They’ve taken the Zen way, so close to their own suppressed preta-na-ma faith, and corrupted it into something hideous! Why do they always do this? Your world has a history it ... a history of killing aH maiming in the name of God.”

  “My world?” said Tomoko. “But aren’t you—”

  “I mean only the world of Western civilization,” Sugihara said, allaying her sudden suspicions.

  Suddenly the crowd surged forward. They were rushing to get in! It’s like Friday night at the movies! thought Tomoko. Only they’re going to die. The homely image hit her hard. This was what they’d done to her people. They’d transformed the most mundane details of life into grisly parodies of themselves. “I can’t watch. What will happen to them?”

  “I think ... I think it is an abattoir,” Sugihara said.

  “Let’s get out of here! I can’t stand it! Let’s get Matt and the kid and split!”

  A huge shoji screen separated the two sides of the sushi bar. Matt couldn’t see at all what was going on in the other half of the restaurant, the half accessible through the Bijitaa entrance.

  There weren’t any tables. Rather self-consciously, he and CB inched their way forward and sat down at the sushi bar itself. A chef was listlessly slicing a large slab of raw tuna.

  “Irasshai, irasshai," he said.

  “What?” said Matt.

  “Eeto! Igirisu wa hanasu koto ga dekinai no! O-kyaku-sama wa nani o—”

  “Excuse me? i really have no idea what you’re saying. Just give me some of that.” He pointed at the tuna. “Ever had raw fish?” he said to CB as it was placed in front of them.

  “Yeah, sure.” CB didn’t look that pleased. “Right. It’s casual.” He took a hefty bite. “It’s casual,” he said, gulping his green tea and looking decidedly out of sorts.

  The sushi chef was looking at the boy with his hands on his hips.

  “Nice food you got,” CB said.

  Suddenly they heard a familiar electronic ping! “Radical!” CB shouted. “It’s ‘Galaga’!” He rushed over to the other end of the bar and started to play, relieved to leave the rest of his raw fish still on its board. Matt stared at it for a while (having greedily enjoyed his own) and finally began to nibble on the kid’s. Meanwhile he could hear sounds of approbation coming from the comer where CB was playing his video game. He could hear the boy explaining his tricks and someone presumably translating. A universal language, he thought, sighing.

  At that point a scream of terror lanced the air.

  It came from behind the screen, the other side of the restaurant. The sound was contorted, agonized, yet unmistakably human. “My God,” Matt said. “What is it?” Icy silence fell in the sushi bar.

  All one could hear was the quiet ping! ping! of the video game and the occasional whoosh of an electronic laser. Then came the screaming again—

  “What’s the matter, why won’t anyone say anything?” The sushi chef looked at his feet. The customers all looked away. The screaming went on and on. CB ran to Matt, seeking protection. “What is that place? Why are they torturing people?”

  “Bijitaa sushi-baa da,” said one of the customers.

  “Visitor sushi bar? What do you mean ... I don’t' know. . . . Oh, God. I know.”

  “They’re eating . . .” CB said.

  “We almo
st went in there!” Matt whispered.

  “Let’s blow.”

  “We’re supposed to wait for—”

  “If we don’t we’ll be history, Matt. C’mon!” He started to tug Matt away from the bar

  “But I haven’t paid yet,” Matt said, trying to cover up his fear with mundane details. He tossed a bank note onto the counter (the institute had vast amounts of cash in its safe, which they’d drawn liberally from) and the two of them made for the door Meanwhile, the groaning went on. . . .

  At the door they met Tomoko and Sugihara.

  Tomoko said, “It’s awful, they’re lining up like cattle, they’re killing them in there—” Then she stopped. A sharp whining in the stillness: barely human.

  Matt looked at his three companions: Tomoko suppressing a scream; CB ghost-pale with terror; Sugihara, his eyes closed, his face composed, lost in a transcendent Zen-like world Matt could never hope to reach.

  “CB’s right. We’ve gotta get outa here. I can’t listen to much more of this.” They slipped out of the sushi bar into the street outside. In the brilliant sunlight, the screaming without wasinuted: it sounded more and more implausible. Matt understood now how so many of his compatriots had simply refused to believe that the Visitors’ intentions could be so evil. It was so much easier to believe the lies. Lies, lies, lies. They surrounded you, they trapped you, and soon you didn’t know anything anymore—until you were no wiser than a morsel of raw fish on their dinner table.

  Sugihara said, “Do not be angry, Matt Jones. Think of-—”

  “Vengeance,” Matt said.

  “—the other martial arts masters, trapped in some terrible hell.”

  “We’ve got to get into that slaughterhouse,” Tomoko said. “And the only way is for me to get in that line.” She pointed. Matt saw them then: the crowd zeroing in on the line outside the department store, the cordons, the guards stalking sternly up and down.

  “You can’t go there,” he said.

  “I can. Look, I used to go shopping at Matsuzakaya all the time, before they converted it into . . . that. They have everyone brainwashed, so they’re not going to expect sabotage or spies. There’s at least one other way into the department store: the basement level opens out directly into the subway system. I’ll go in and do some spying and make it back to meet you at the subway entrance at . . . midnight.”