The Final Wars Rage

by S A Asthana

Akiyama lowered his gaze, keeping his eyes from catching Reo’s.

  “She died from a brain aneurism — you told us this, but was it a lie, father?”

  Silence. Akiyama’s head hung and his shoulders drooped.

  “Father, please,” Reo pressed.

  “She never died,” Akiyama bellowed. Paper shoji panels in the room seemed to shake. Reo lost his breath. It was like he’d sprinted ten city blocks in the span of a single second.

  “Despite serotonin enhancements, her depression only grew deeper by the day. It came to the point where she couldn’t function — you were barely a few months old and your mother had completely fallen apart. Her spirit had been choked by her environment.”

  “She’s not dead?” Reo stood, his face red-hot. “Where is she now?”

  Akiyama struggled. His body language was of a man battling immense internal turmoil.

  “Father, is she still here in the city?” Tears streamed down Reo’s soft cheeks. How could a mother walk away from her children? There had to be more to the story.

  “No, she left a long time ago.”

  “Left? Is she up at Port Sydney?”

  Akiyama shook his head. “No. She left aboard the Hōshō.”

  Reo’s knees buckled, and he plopped to the floor. “The transport craft?”

  “Yes. The one meant for Titan.”

  Father’s past behavior suddenly made sense. The aversion to the topic was there for a reason. Any attempt at poking and prodding the mission status during internal briefings had been rebuked, kicked away underneath the carpet. Reo had been told to let go of the issue — it was outside his jurisdiction, after all. But he’d pressed, fueled by an unshakable curiosity.

  “She stowed aboard the craft illegally. By the time we found out, it was too late. The craft had already left the inner solar system. The fuel and maintenance costs would have been too high if they’d have come back to drop her off.”

  “By the time we found out? Who’s we?”

  Akiyama took a deep breath as if to collect his thoughts. He answered with crunched brow, “Only a handful of leaders in the military knew, because the mission was controlled within one of their agencies. Gensui-Rikugun-Taishō is one of them.”

  Reo’s blood boiled at the revelation. Wiping away tears, he said, “He knew? Why not us then? Why weren’t the sons informed?”

  “It would have destroyed Etsuji. He was already ten by then and so very fond of her. I didn’t want him knowing he’d been deserted by his own mother. Yukito wouldn’t have cared either way — his relationship with her was strained. He was the most like her out of you three, and they clashed a lot as a result. And you… you were too young to remember her. So, I felt it best to erase her memory altogether by telling the lie. It was better this way. You didn’t grow up feeling abandoned.”

  A father trying to hold his family together during desperate times. The man was sad — he too had been abandoned, after all. While the sons had their father’s comfort to get them through tough times, he did not have theirs. A Nipponese emperor wasn’t supposed to show weakness. So he’d pushed away the pain, feigning strength in the face of distress.

  “The city couldn’t know their empress had deserted them, either.” He rubbed his temples as if digging up the topic was an arduous task. “A tragic death allowed for mourning and a lingering fondness. The truth would have brought shame upon our house.”

  Duty. Honor. These responsibilities couldn’t be forgotten under any circumstance. Reo reached out and took his father’s hand gently. There was sadness in Akiyama’s face unlike any before. His eyes were wet. The age-old secret had weighed him down. But there was a doubt brewing. Despite the heavy emotions, it demanded acknowledgement. Reo swallowed a lump and asked, “Did the mission really lose its communication? Or did… we cut it on purpose?”

  “How can you even suggest such a thing?” Akiyama pulled away his hand. His eyebrows pressed together. “You think I would put at risk the life of those men, women and children aboard the craft, just because of domestic issues?”

  Reo’s cheeks reddened. I should have never asked. How could I?

  “The communication died on its own,” his father continued. “We tried everything short of sending another craft to seek out the Hōshō — we just didn’t have the funds. After a while, it was assumed they’d all perished.” His head hung. “The hope of a backup colony destroyed.”

  “Then how do you know mother is still alive?”

  “Because late last night, our military received a communication signal from the colony.”

  Reo’s eyes widened. There was hope, after all.

  “The message stated there had been issues early on aboard the Hōshō that led to disruption in communication. The craft crashed upon reaching the destination either due to malfunction or some other strife. It wasn’t quite clear to us in the communication. We do understand only half the colonizers survived. They built a new home. And the computer’s radio was eventually fixed.”

  “It took them eighteen years to solve the issue?”

  Father nodded. “You must remember, they had limited resources. The plan was to set up the backup colony using some onboard but mostly local resources, and then for a subset of the colonizers to make the year long journey back for additional supplies. With the Hōshō out of commission, there was no option for them but to carry on with what they had.” Locking eyes with his son, he added, “The message was from your mother.”

  Reo didn’t know how to respond or act. He focused his entire being on breathing.

  “There’s much to consider, I know. The military is trying to establish a reliable, ongoing communication signal with the colony to get more details. The ping we received was spotty at best. There are so many questions.”

  “Why tell me this?”

  Akiyama stroked his beard in consideration. His face flickered with a tired smile. “Because out of my three sons, I know you can handle this information. I want you to get involved once proper communication has been established. I want it to be you to lead the conversation with the colony, not the military.”

  “Lead it?”

  “Yes, lead it, Reo. We need to make sure this mission doesn’t go public. Etsuji cannot find out about this either — he will take over my seat in a month and this will only weigh him down. No, he certainly cannot get wind of it. Yukito, I don’t trust him. You… you are the only one in this family I can ask for help with this task. I trust you most.”

  A sudden shame burned Reo. His father’s faith seared in the chest. If only the man knew that his son plotted the murder of his most beloved consort.

  “I will help, father,” he responded, his voice nearly cracking.

  “Get all of your other affairs in order. By that time, the communication will be sorted out. Get involved then. And talk to her.”

  The idea of talking to his mother, a woman he’d thought long dead until moments back, was terrifying — especially now the truth had come to light. But he dared not show fear in the face of his father’s request.

  “It will be hard for my other sons to talk with their mother,” Akiyama noted. “But not for you. You barely knew her. Therefore, it makes sense for you to lead.”

  He stood. The session was concluding. “I must retire. I have a headache I cannot seem to shed.” He worked his way towards the bedroom. “Be kind to her when you do talk to her. She was confused.”

  A soft spot for the woman who betrayed him even after all these years. As his father ambled out of the living room like a snail, Reo considered the situation. While the colony having survived was good news, there was also concern. Etsuji had said the revelation of such a colonization attempt would worsen tensions with Port Sydney. Not having included them in the decision-making process about a fourth colony would only ruffle their feathers. They’d see it as illegal expansion, a violation of the Trilateral Treaty’s Article Nine. No, the colony’s survival could never be made public.

  CHAPTER 17: BASTIEN


  Haptic suits were foreign to Bastien. The one he had on, a sleek black skin-tight leotard imprinted with a wavy design, suffocated. But Dr. Bala had told him he’d soon get used to its snug fit. Bastien had never worn one before, not even during training up at Port Sydney. Military recruits were trained in real-live simulations rather than virtual ones. So there’d never been a need for clothing which allowed the wearer to feel mock-sensations over the body. He’d need one to meet Belle inside her world. The Nipponese were light years ahead when it came to virtual reality. Haptic suits came cheap.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, all the while pressing away any folds in the suit. Then he put on the specialized helmet and ensured it fit snug around his skull. The visor was positioned just over the face. This way he could not only see the details of his virtual world, but also smell them. A fully immersive experience brought to consumers by the Fuji Corporation.

  Since the headset was already plugged into one of the datacenter’s many servers, a simple voice command would power it on, or so Bastien thought. He said, “Engage.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Umm… power on,” he commanded. Still nothing. “Let’s do this?”

  A playful, female giggle echoed.

  “Hey, Belle, can you give me a hand please?”

  A few beeps later the headset’s lenses lit alive with colors. Swirls of red and blue danced ahead. A rush came over Bastien — hot wind gusts simulated over thousands of microscopic sensors built into the haptic suit’s fabric warmed the datacenter’s cold. It was a shock to the senses. Bastien’s heart rate hastened. He nearly lost his balance. It was as if he was being sucked down into a magical drain of pixels.

  The colors melted into one another and gave way to a familiar space — one that had been dank and disgusting before, but now stood clean. It was Bastille Market as it had never been. Bright electric chandeliers bathed the space in a gentle, sunny hue. The floor was spotless and coated in a whitewash, its bricks sans grime and dirt. And instead of downtrodden tents, the market now boasted colorful ones, each built using crisp fabric.

  There was a buzz. Parisians filled the space, but they didn’t resemble those neglected souls Bastien had grown up amongst. No, these men, women and children bore smiles and wore silken clothes without holes and stains. They were washed. Hell, the entire market was washed — the smell of baked croissants watered his mouth.

  Men laughed, their bellies rotund with food. And children read books or played board games, their happiness apparent. It was a civilized atmosphere. Bastien took it all in with mouth agape. Glancing from one direction to the next, he couldn’t get enough of what he was seeing.

  That’s when he spotted her.

  Belle stood in the crowd. She appeared much the same, although there were differences. The oval face, the green cat eyes, and the lithe physique — it was all present, but there was also a red silk dress now draping her, its fabric engraved in delicate pattern. Gone was the track suit and the combat boots. Her cropped blue hair had been replaced by natural fiery locks. Where there had once been a spritely ninja full of rebellion and sadness now stood a regal beauty. She was breathtaking. So were her red lips parting into a smile. Had he ever seen her smile?

  “Hi, Bas,” she spoke. Her words warmed his insides.

  “H-hey, Belle,” he stammered. “Is it really you?”

  She massaged a fold away on her laced sleeve and answered, “It’s me. And this is New Paris as it should have been.” There was a calm in her eyes Bastien didn’t remember.

  “You look so real.” Bastien took a step forward. His heart raced still, just as before. This was like a dream, one so lifelike it fooled every sense, a magic show with grand illusions.

  “I am real,” Belle said. She reached out a delicate hand. He grazed his fingers against her smooth palm. The sensation lit his brain.

  Belle grabbed Bastien’s arm and pulled him in. His face came so close to hers that he could feel her breath. His muscles relaxed. She kissed him on the forehead. Bastien’s senses tingled with delight. Her perfume was exhilarating. The warmth of her affection, even if only digital, was soothing.

  She rested her head on his chest. “How you been, big guy?”

  Bastien’s gaze roamed the market. There were smiling faces everywhere. He blinked to see whether they’d change back to their miserable selves. “I… I…haven’t been well.” The virtual faces remained happy. What could have been.

  He broke into tears. Slumping to the floor, he pressed his face into his palms and sobbed. His shoulders shook and his heart bled with guilt. There was so much to cry about. His life, his actions, the consequences that destroyed all of these people — everything hit him like a wrecking ball.

  Belle knelt and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He wept into her bosom. “I’m so sorry you died.”

  She rocked him slow as if he were an infant.

  “I’m so sorry for New Paris,” he cried. “I’m so sorry for all of it.” He bawled with every ounce of energy he had. It was like a wet sponge being squeezed — tears held captive for ages came out.

  Several minutes passed, each second entangled with emotion. He was a broken man, and when broken men cried they took their time. Belle pursed her lips and shushed Bastien. She said, finally, “It’s not your fault, Bas.”

  His shoulders still trembled.

  “My death, New Paris — none of it is your fault,” she said. “I know you feel like it is right now, but it isn’t. It was all out of your control.”

  The crying continued. Her words weren’t leaving a mark. Pressing Bastien closer into her virtualized body, she continued, “A wise man once told me ‘onward and upward.’”

  Bastien blinked open his eyes. Onward and upward — words from another life. Onward. And upward.

  “Onward and upward,” Belle continued, “You told me.” She wiped tears off his cheeks. “Remember?” Her fingers caressed his scalp with the same touch he’d known when she was real.

  The crying stopped. Bastien straightened his back, his eyes still moist. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d cried. It wasn’t something he did as an orphan in New Paris.

  “You are a good man, Bas.” Belle ran her fingers down the side of his face. She was gentle. There wasn’t a hint of the machine. “A man caught up in a bad situation. None of this was intentional. You must remember this.”

  “I should have never come back to New Paris,” he sulked. “I unleashed hell.”

  “Even if you never came back, my sister would have found a way to start a war with Port Sydney. She wanted it so more than anything, after all. The lust for power. It’s unfortunate you got caught in the middle of our fight.”

  The truth.

  “She was a liability waiting to happen despite your involvement,” Belle said, “and she still is.”

  A memory stabbed Bastien — the Nipponese water trawler’s cold metal smell, its small bathroom’s confinement, and Father Paul’s warmth of spirit. The escape from Earth had taken place only two weeks back, but it was as if it occurred a lifetime ago.

  “One man couldn’t possibly unleash such hell,” the old man with the dreads had said. “New Paris was a casualty waiting to happen despite your involvement. It had been deteriorating. You know that all too well. The same result would have played out, triggered by something other than your visit. Marie would have led the city down that path of self-destruction no matter what.”

  Bastien took a deep breath. Had he been too hard on himself all this time?

  “We cannot control everything, my dear boy. The universe and all its happenings are God’s will.” Father Paul had continued. “Proverbs 3:5-6. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”

  “You cannot control everything around you, Bas,” Belle echoed. “Sometimes you have to let things play out the way the universe intended them to.”

  The graveyard of corpses rotting inside his mind became translucent, its graves and to
mbstones blending in more with the surrounding darkness. The cries of the perished waned. Their reverberations lessened, the threads of their wails retreating into the dark forest of his head.

  “I cannot control everything around me,” he repeated. “It isn’t my fault.” A cool sensation soothed his insides, as if it were a breeze floating over a stream. The heat in his neck diminished like a fire burning out. Knots loosened. When was the last time there’d been such calm?

  Belle stood and urged him to do the same. “Come with me.”

  He followed, pulled along by the hand. She commanded, “Stop.” The market froze including all its patrons. A book hung motionless in mid-air after slipping from a child’s hand. It was a snapshot in time. No movement, nor sound. “All of them, my subjects, believe they’re real,” Belle started. “Their memories, experiences, emotions, everything — I planted when I coded them into existence. They will never know the difference. Here they will live a life free of oppression. A life worth living.”

  “How many people live here?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Bastien’s eyes widened. “You coded that many people?”

  “Yes, and only in a matter of minutes.” Belle gloated. “I was and still am good with code. Now that I have the hardware and processing speed to back up my aspirations, I rebuilt New Paris.”

  “All of it?”

  “Every tunnel, every chamber and every room.” Belle held out her arms. “New Paris lives on.”

  The city of his childhood was back. Every brick and corner had been detailed into existence within the simulation. What had been destroyed in reality now thrived in virtual reality — a reality without Marie. Belle could rule New Paris in the way she’d always wanted. Parisians could have the leader they deserved.

  “These people — they are ones you knew?” Bastien stared at a family.

  “A few are but not all. My Jacobins are here, except now each has a family. Each has employment — baker, doctor, what have you. There are several people I remember from my childhood living here as well. But most are new creations, Bas. All healthy and happy. As it should have been. Marie can never corrupt this New Paris.”