She shivered as tears wet her cheeks. “Yes, Saitō-sama. You are kind and treat me well.”
He tightened the armor about his forearms, one after the next. “This task I undertake for the glory of Matsushita Corporation is but a triviality. There is not a man in this nation who can best me.”
“Yes, Saitō-sama.” She bowed.
Katana in hand, he went to the dining room where Nami had laid out a bowl of rice, seafood soup, and several pieces of sashimi. The woman stood in silence while he ate, focusing on speed rather than enjoyment.
Mamoru nodded his approval when finished and she cleared the dishes, returning with his travel case.
“Nami-chan. I shall be absent for at least one night, perhaps two. Until my return, you are responsible for this house.”
Nami bowed. “I will not disappoint you, Saitō-sama.”
Within the Matsushita Prefecture, Mamoru wore his katana outside his coat. Citizens averted their eyes and scurried out of his way as he walked the several blocks to a monorail station. Ocean salt mixed with a wisp of udon soup and the occasional whiff of overpowering cologne in the air. Mamoru jogged up the moving steps to the elevated concourse where a thick wall of bodies had formed awaiting the tram. At the current hour, a modest crowd of university students and those on later-starting shifts waited near the track. Whispers spread, alerting them to his approach. Like a congealing jelly recoiling from a caustic substance, the commuters split apart, forming two masses each crushing themselves to get away from him. This offered a channel through which he moved to the yellow and black striped line. No one looked at his face, no one spoke to him, and none dared come within six steps. Even beggar children kept their distance.
A pair of company security officers in gloss white armor approached, the one on the left eyed his katana while the other examined a datapad. Mamoru ignored them. Some seconds later when his identity flashed on screen, both men paled and bowed.
“With respectful apologies, Saitō-san, we did not recognize you.”
Mamoru grunted. “Mmm.”
Several minutes after the security officers moved away down the concourse, a tram arrived in a flurry of billowing clothing and flowing hair. The crowd shuffled back in the wind, but pressed in as soon as the maglev came to a full stop. All around him, bodies squeezed against each other in a rush to board before the automated system sent it on its way. Mamoru stepped through the door, free of the weight of a commuter crush, and took the nearest open seat. The bench was large enough for three, but no one dared.
With his eyes closed, he focused on the monorail. His body grew heavy and his sense of self melted away. The gasp of people nearby preceded a hush. They saw the light of his chi, manifested in the form of ghost-fire along his arms. Reality reoriented itself as he projected his consciousness into the machine. He became the tram, brushing aside the automation and assuming control. Internal lights flickered and cut out, causing a stir among the occupants. His perception stretched forward, becoming a rigid body lying on its belly in a confining tube. Every component became known to him as if a new part of him he could move: lights, brakes, fire suppression system, magnetic impeller―even climate controls. The tram leapt forward at his desire for motion, a reflex as innate as walking.
After the initial oddity of slithering wore off, he picked up speed and sent a mental feeler over the wireless into the Tokyo Metro network. Up ahead along the route, switch paths changed to his whim. The passengers became restless as the first stop shot by without pause. By the time the tram missed four stations, the twinge of a hundred hands pushing the emergency brake raked like needles along his back. A minor nuisance he found simple to tune out.
His monorail picked up speed, rushing through station after station with enough force to suck people onto the rail in its wake. He leaned with the turns, altering the flow of the magnets to prevent the cars from disengaging the rail. After disregarding another seven stops, the metal serpent plunged down a tunnel that took it out under the ocean. The passengers pounded on the glass windows, making him cringe. Mamoru, the great serpent, cringed as a gut full of angry mice swallowed live clawed at his insides.
The resplendent beauty of the ocean dulled the crowd’s anxiety. Fish swam through clouds of kelp amid scintillating shafts of sunlight that tinted everything blue. A long, straight section of track carried them for about twenty minutes before the Shōrishima interchange appeared in the murky distance. The sub-oceanic installation sat near the edge of the continental shelf, a large complex of buildings that even contained a hotel. Mamoru clutched at the brakes, his hands and feet warmed to the point of pain as he brought the tram to a halt within a large chamber.
Mamoru released his connection to the machine. The change felt as if his soul peeled up from the rail, shrank to human size, and slapped back into his body. A minute later, every door along the side of the tram opened, providing access to the platform. While dozens of confused people stared at their surroundings, Mamoru bounded to his feet and slipped out before they could close. Within seconds, the normal automation resumed control of the monorail, and sent it back where it should have gone.
Myriad sounds echoed in the cavernous space, from the unending thrum of air handlers to the frantic murmurs of technicians attempting to figure out what happened with the tram. Mamoru inhaled the fragrance of the ocean tinted with the ozone flavor of high-powered magnets. The large commuter station had only a few dozen travelers waiting for a scheduled arrival, all of whom stared in various stages of standing up, wearing idiot-faces at the tram that had arrived and left almost right away.
Most who worked on the artificial island lived there. The commute was expensive and only three prefectures had a direct tram connection, forcing people to travel through the territory of a rival company to get there. Executives could reach it via hovercar; however, if tensions flared, they ran the risk of being shot down.
Shōrishima was often tense.
The artificial island started as a project undertaken by the Nippon Shōgyō-Kumiai, a trade consortium that facilitated commerce between a fragmented Japan and the rest of the world. However, the Japanese State Defense Force had co-opted it. Largely a bystander in the day-to-day micro-wars between corporations, the JSDF instead kept its watchful attention turned outward. Non-aggression treaties with the UCF emerged from pre-war friendships, though the Allied Corporate Council had made no secret of its jealousy. With Russia so close, they were ever on edge.
The NSK built the artificial land mass and the JSDF moved in. Both thought they ran the show. A tentative agreement left the consortium responsible for policing, while the JSDF kept to themselves, doing whatever they wanted. Street fights between factions were common, drunken brawls taken to the next level in an endless battle for perceived dominance. At least, that was the case if the soldiers didn’t pick the wrong NSK operative to harass. Sometimes, JSDF personnel vanished.
The NSK blurred the boundary between merchant, police, and organized crime. Any one of those terms fit them, depending on their mood.
A holographic poster bathed the area in flickering pale light, its recorded voice congratulating tourists for visiting the pinnacle of technological innovation. Cartoon schoolchildren sprouted like plants from Shōrishima’s surface, proclaiming it Victory Island. Victory over the gods who had given the Japanese people such limited land as well as victory over Mother Nature. Many felt it arrogant and waited for the day the ocean took her back. Mamoru looked away from the banner with a grumble of distaste. He agreed with them.
He was one of the few who held a great deal of respect for the old ways and the spirits. For many, Japan had adopted ancient traditions in costume alone as a way of solidifying a national identity. He believed in the spirits. Taunting the Earth was a dangerous idea, and he did not intend to remain in such a place any longer than necessary. That thought brought him to a brisk stride towards the eastward end of the concourse, closest to the yawning maw of the deep ocean. A pair of JSDF troopers with thick rif
les held across their beige-armored vests loitered by a bank of vendomats, two steps to the left of an ominous black counter.
A female doll in an all-black jumpsuit, plain save for the silver dragon-in-a-circle logo of the NSK, offered him a preprogrammed smile.
“Greetings,” she chirped, “How may I assist you?”
“When is the next transport to Shōrishima scheduled?”
Her head tilted to the side, smile widening, eyes never pointing away from his face. Mamoru found comfort in the Class 1 doll’s gaps, the way they behaved at once so close and yet so far removed from human twisted at his gut. If the artificial island was an affront to Mother Nature, dolls were an offense to the gods.
“It is due in seven minutes. Would you like to reserve a seat?”
Impolite. So Western. He released a silent sigh. It’s just a machine. “Yes.”
The submersible shuttlecraft vectored away from the undersea station. Pale blue sand soon gave way to infinite darkness as the continental shelf receded. Over the next half hour, it cruised farther out to sea, staying well underwater.
A pleasant chime preceded an artificial girl’s voice. “Attention passengers: Shōrishima should become visible any moment now forward and left of the shuttle. We will be docking within ten minutes. Please begin preparations to disembark at this time. Your seats will automatically reset to default position in five minutes. Enjoy your stay in Shōrishima.”
Mamoru’s eyes shifted left, gazing through a ghostly image of himself at the ocean. A wide patch of shadow lurked ahead, defined by sunlit water where the enormous machine did not block the silvery “sky” of the ocean surface. The shuttle descended in a gradual turn. Colored lights blinked in the murk, gleaming across the back of the occasional fish curious enough to get close. The blurry forms of gargantuan pillars faded in from the murk, mammoth pylons two hundred meters square that stretched ninety stories below sea level. Five such towers reached to the depths, arranged at pentagonal points around the disc-shaped island. Each contained a massive number of propulsion systems, superconducting batteries, water purification systems, and dangerous packs of gangs and squatters with nowhere else to go.
Shōrishima had the capability to move around the globe; however, the AI who controlled everything kept it geostationary. Koemi, as she had been personified, had become a mascot to those who lived there. Somewhere between cute little sister and fearsome goddess, her likeness was everywhere on the artificial island. Holo-panels around the cities broadcast her daily show and sometimes let citizens talk to her. The NSK had made her a media star. Koemi merchandise was ubiquitous, although her smiling face varied in apparent age. Toys, clothing, and accessories most often depicted a likeness of her in the tween range, with varying degrees of cute based on who the product was intended for. In some places, dolls and artwork depicted an older Koemi, sometimes as wizened as twenty years old, but they were not the sort of places respectable people went.
Few things worried Mamoru Saitō. However, a sense of unease crept through him as one of the great pylons drew close. Below the metal island, a vast undersea world existed in which an army of technicians constantly labored to keep systems operational. So many things could fail, and hundreds of thousands would die if this abomination sank. He looked away from the coral-studded beams and girders and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Despite his gift, he did not fancy trusting his life to technology. Space travel made him even more nervous; here, at least, he might be able to swim. In space, one flaw in a suit, one crack in a visor, and all the skill and training in the world with his blade meant nothing.
“Attention everyone, we are on final approach to the central docking station.” A ripple of mechanical thuds ran down the rows as seats reset to the default position. Several travelers who still slept jostled awake. “We will be arriving within two minutes.”
Mamoru gazed into the murk. The undercarriage of the great metal beast slid by, unsettling him even further. Deceleration pushed him forward in the seat a few seconds before gravity intensified. Fragments of vegetation, trash, and fish slid down past the window as the ship’s motion changed to a vertical ascent. Metal walls blocked off the view, and the ambient light outside grew brighter until a break of water washed over the hull. Streaks of white glare made him turn away as the ocean receded via unseen pumps. The shuttle creaked as its landing struts absorbed its weight. A massive elevator lifted it several meters and a heavy clank ran through the hull as a wheeled boarding tunnel connected.
Here in the NSK-controlled center, his station with Matsushita meant little. People did not defer to him or move out of his way. This was a neutral area where no single corporation had any more power than another. It was a necessity of doing business. If the NSK refused a company, it effectively cut them off from the outside world, an irrecoverable loss.
He had not yet come to terms with his feelings at being ‘just another man standing on line’ by the time he reached the check-in station. Mamoru smiled, kept his head down, and walked through the scanners and past four security dolls. Nothing beeped, and the automated guards did not react to him.
Mamoru did not want them to.
The atrium behind the security station held a hexagonal vertical shaft twenty stories high. A clear dome protected it from the weather, but allowed in natural sunlight. Great hanging plants descended from the rafters, bedecked with flowers at random intervals. The sense of living foliage afforded him a moment of peace as he savored the fragrance of orchids.
Moving among dozens of cart vendors selling anything and everything a business traveler could want, and many things they would not, Mamoru boarded one of the elevators that expressed to the surface. Sharing it in close proximity to a dozen others who had little care for his rank left him wearing a sneer by the time the doors opened. Outside, a cool breeze carried the scent of the ocean, metal, and teriyaki. A small crowd gathered by a barefoot teen girl clad in dingy rags and a metal headset with glowing teal lights. She sat cross-legged in the square, surrounded by an array of holographic panels with shifting geometric shapes. Her hands moved as blurs, swatting, picking and waving at them, creating an ethereal mixture of electronic flute and bell-toned music. An anklet of bells added the occasional highlight as she tapped her foot. Her music had a primal, spiritual quality that felt wholly out of place on a metal island or even in this century. Mamoru looked up at the hanging garden, letting the sound lift his soul to a space removed from era. She connected him to the Kami and he found himself almost meditating on his feet.
When the urgency of his mission returned, he walked past her with a slight nod and waved his NetMini by a device she had set up to receive donations. The girl smiled and bowed as much as she could without missing a note.
The southern end of the terminal square held a taxi station. A few minutes after he hit the button, a tiny white car with one seat and eight-inch wheels rolled up and stopped. The egg-like body split, the entire front half swinging open. Mamoru settled in and put his hand on the interface panel as the car closed around him. A polite male voice emanated from a few inches behind his head.
“Good afternoon, honored guest. To where―”
His arms swam with vaporous white energy and he knew the taxi. Like forcing his hand through a bowl of hot noodles, he reached into the program code. Words and symbols flashed through his mind as he reordered them, inserting new programming as his brain demanded. The car would not ask him for identity, payment, or record anything that went on during the journey to Noro-Shimura territory. Five minutes after the ride ended, his custom programming would devour itself.
“Begin route,” said the voice.
His tiny conveyance lurched forward, zipping around people and obstacles. Mamoru shifted and squirmed, trying to find comfort in a seat that was little more than hard, cloth-covered plastic.
The tiny car meandered among pedestrians down a narrow street not much faster than a man could walk. On either side, age and weather gradually divested the plastisteel buildings
of their stucco facades. The illusion of land unsettled him. Had he not seen the underside of the engineered island, he would not know miles of water stretched out below instead of earth. Tattered cloth awnings flapped and fluttered on the faces of tall apartment buildings, some bearing the weight of poor children at play. A minute later, the car whirred to a halt at the corner of a long, three-story structure that made only a passing attempt to conceal its modernistic nature. The front end rose amid the whirr of electric motors, allowing him to get out.
The thump of the car hatch closing startled hundreds of seagulls from the roofs around him. One red tile slid loose, breaking on the ground. The sound echoed in both directions, stalling childish laughter from a half block away. Eyes, some visible, some hidden in shadow, watched him. With his case in his left hand, he went around the rear of the egg and onto the porch of the Tenki Hotel. Three teenaged thugs eased themselves from benches and formed up in his path.
The audacity of it raised his eyebrow. Noro-Shimura is too lax. They do not embrace tradition as they should.
A boy, maybe seventeen, got in his way. “What’s in the case, old man?”
“It is fortunate for you that I am a guest here. As a gesture of good faith to Noro-Shimura, I shall afford you the courtesy of a warning before I kill you for your insolence.” Mamoru brushed his coat aside to reveal the handle of his blade.
“Oh, big man has a knife.” The punk waved his hands back and forth in front of a taunting face.
The other two mocked his gesture, pulling their shirts up to expose the handles of pistols.
Mamoru bowed his head in a grim nod. His left hand released the case. He grasped the katana as chi flamed down the length of his arms. Slow motion took the world as his power channeled inward, accelerating his body and mind. Energy spread from the hypersonic oscillator in the handle across the edge as he drew and attacked in one motion.
Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3) Page 4