Clockwork Samurai

by Jeannie Lin

  “He’s the Emperor,” I retorted. “His will is law.”

  “You know that’s not true. Our all-powerful sovereign is far from all-powerful.”

  I fell silent, concentrating on the acupuncture points. The closer Chang-wei and I became, the further apart I realized we were. Could someone truly be that loyal? That self-sacrificing?

  “Even if I managed to heal you, you would still return to the Ministry, to the imperial court, wouldn’t you?”

  His eyes were open now. “I must. The empire needs us, Soling.”

  He’d used this argument on me before. “They’ll never trust you.”

  “They will when we win.”

  I continued the treatment along the heart meridian first on one side and then the other, hoping that I was restoring the natural flow of qi. Encouraging his body to right itself and fight off the disruption the imperial court had forced upon him.

  Chang-wei fell asleep, and even though I was done, I stood and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. His breathing seemed less labored now, the tension in his face relaxed. He was still feverish, but sleep would combat that. I wanted to believe he was healing.

  What he was fighting for went beyond Emperor Yizhu and the imperial court. Chang-wei believed in preserving our land, our roots. Some small part of me understood it, but I could never be so trusting. I’d lost too much.

  Half an hour passed before I finally woke him. Yang had cut the engines and allowed the ship to sail along, which must have meant we were out on the open sea and out of danger . . . for now.

  Chang-wei seemed to lean more heavily on me as we walked together back to our berths. Whether it was because he meant to press closer to me or he needed the support, I didn’t know.

  * * *

  The next morning, we all watched the surrounding seas vigilantly for Japanese ships. There were none as the junk sailed clear of Nagasaki Bay and headed for open water. Once we were out of cannon range, the authorities seemed to have lost interest. Or perhaps they had recovered Lord Takeda. I prayed that he wasn’t in chains this very moment. I prayed that he would be able to plead his case to the shogunate.

  Makoto stood at the stern looking back toward shore long after it disappeared from view. In contrast, Satomi spent no time looking back. She absorbed herself in the rigging and the operation of the sails. I saw her watching the crew at work, her hair flying loose from its braid to whip around her face.

  I treated Chang-wei once more in the morning with my needles. He was no better, but no worse, so I told him to get some rest. Regardless, I came to the upper deck midday to see him standing beside Yang, deep in conversation.

  The two of them couldn’t be more mismatched. Chang-wei’s hair was pulled back into a traditional queue. The length of it formed a collar around his neck, and he still wore a Japanese robe. His shoulders were set back, and his spine was straight. Formal. Dignified.

  Yang stood with a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. His hair was cut short, the ends curling just above his shoulder. To a Westerner, he might have looked like a merchant or a gentleman, but in Peking, he couldn’t be mistaken for anything but a rebel. A hanjian, to be specific. Race traitor and Western sympathizer. But he was neither of those. The imperial government had forced him out.

  This was the first time the two of them had spoken in years, perhaps since my father’s death. I waited for some argument to erupt, but they remained civil. Neither one so much as batted an eye.

  I approached Yang much later when the sun was setting. He stood alone at the bow. A plume of smoke rose above him to be picked up by the breeze.

  “Mèimèi.”

  He took one final pull from his cigarette before grinding it out against the side of a silver holding case. For the moment, he still appeared lost in thought.

  “You spoke with Chang-wei?” I asked.

  He gave a shrug as he tucked the case into a pocket in his jacket. “Of course I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Same as always. Old times. Our golden days at the academy,” he replied dryly.

  It was well-known that the two of them were the youngest members of the Ministry when my father was at the head. Yang Hanzhu had passed the imperial science examinations on his first try at the age of eighteen. It was a feat that was unheard of until Chang-wei did the same several years later. Shortly afterward, my father had arranged my marriage to Chang-wei, though I had only been ten years old at the time. Plenty of time for him to establish a career in the imperial government before our actual wedding.

  “It was mostly business. A stiff expression of gratitude for my assistance. How I was to return the two of you to your precious imperial court waiting in Peking. The same court that turned their back on you while you were in Japan, yet feels no reservation making use of the information you gained.”

  I knew better than to take his bait. “I’m grateful as well.”

  “What you really want to know is did Chang-wei talk about you?” Yang turned back to the water as if it were of no consequence. “He did.”

  My pulse jumped through no doing of my own.

  “Perhaps the most interesting part of this conversation,” he went on, “is how you’ve chosen to ask me about this rather than speaking to your intended yourself.”

  “He’s not my intended—”

  “I may not give you the answers you want, but you can trust me to be honest,” he went on. “Chen Chang-wei is and has always been full of secrets.”

  I wanted to deny it in Chang-wei’s defense, but I feared Yang would see the truth in my eyes.

  “I’m surprised the honorable Engineer Chen didn’t do what was right and make you his wife as he had promised.” The corner of his mouth curled. “I thought that was what your future held when you chose him so dramatically—flying over the ocean.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “I wasn’t choosing Chang-wei.”

  He cocked his head. “You weren’t?”

  “I was choosing my family and the future of the empire.”

  “And I’m sure the empire is exactly why Engineer Chen refrains from acting on his desires. It’ll always be duty first with him, even when it makes no rational sense.”

  I wasn’t so certain of Chang-wei’s unquestioning loyalty toward the Emperor any longer. Surely he could see how expendable we were to Yizhu.

  “What is it between the two of you?” I asked.

  “We disagree,” he said simply. “On everything.”

  There was no use arguing with him. The two of them were very different down to their bones. Yang was all about taking action, while men like Chang-wei and Lord Takeda were skilled in biding their time. In building their defenses and bending more powerful forces gradually to their will, like a slow stream cutting through rock bit by bit to form a river.

  What other options were there? Rebellion? Exile, as Yang had chosen? Or defeat and surrender? Certainly not.

  “Will you return us to Peking?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, my stomach knotted. We were on his ship and at his mercy.

  “We have to return,” I insisted. “You may not be able to tell, but Chang-wei isn’t well.”

  “Anyone can tell.” Yang turned back to the ocean, staring down into the waves. “I will return you to Peking, if that’s what you wish. But he’s blind, Soling. You have to realize that. He’s blind and you are not.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I won’t be going with you to Peking,” Satomi confided to me on merely the second day of the voyage. We were alone in the sleeping area. Makoto and Chang-wei had gone above deck for sunshine and fresh air.

  “What about Makoto?” I asked.

  She sat down beside me. “That scoundrel goes where he wants.”

  “He’s all but pledged to protect you,” I pointed out.

  “Then he won’t go to Pek
ing, either.”

  Satomi had accepted his oath of loyalty without blinking. Though they had both given up name and country to go into exile, the class lines between them hadn’t been erased. Satomi was noble-born, while Makoto had been of a lower class, serving his daimyo in hopes of rising in the ranks. Until he’d fallen in love.

  “Perhaps that’s best,” I admitted.

  They would have been outsiders in the imperial capital, or worse. Satomi would be exploited for her gun-making techniques and interrogated about her father’s secrets.

  “What will you do?” I asked her.

  “Yang Hanzhu has agreed to let me stay on board as long as I take on a share of the work.”

  “As part of his crew?” I was surprised Yang would ask that of her, but then I realized it was likely Satomi who had come up with the offer. She was the one who had taken the steps to learn about the ship and its operation.

  A woman couldn’t live under a man’s care without some sort of unspoken arrangement assumed, could she? Better to take control of her own life.

  “I’ll miss you,” I confessed. She knew the pain I’d faced losing a father and having the responsibilities of the world suddenly on your shoulders.

  Satomi smiled crookedly, but it quickly faded. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

  She reached into a crevice on the side of her bunk and pulled out the book Chang-wei had given to her. It was folded in accordion style, with the pages formed out of one continuous sheet.

  “I’ve been reading my father’s words.” She hesitated, turning through the pages one by one. “I think I know why Takeda-sama kept this book hidden. My father argues for adopting new methods, new ways of thinking.”

  “Western ways.”

  Satomi looked downward. “He criticizes the empires of China and Japan for harkening back to philosophies that are over a thousand years old. The Art of War. These ideas alone were enough to condemn him.”

  I could see how difficult it was for her to speak of this aloud. “My father was executed for declaring that our defenses were inferior and that we should study the ways of the Yingguoren.”

  “They shared similar ideas,” Satomi said, opening to a page she had marked with a thread. “Father proposes that in order to protect the empire, one must go against the wishes of the bakufu if one knows their direction is wrong. He calls for a formation of a group of operatives, specially trained and educated, ranked by merit rather than nobility. The group would span professions and kingdoms.”

  My throat was suddenly dry. “A group that would act against the government if needed. Is there any mention of whether they formed such a group?”

  Satomi shook her head. “It was only mentioned once.”

  Enough to constitute treason. Had our fathers communicated their arguments across the signal towers? I had always assumed my father was executed as an innocent. That he’d been loyal to the empire to his very last breath.

  But if he had argued for rebellion. If he had secretly recruited others—

  It was no wonder the imperial court had condemned the disciples closest to him. Many of them had been accused and put to death as well, leaving Kuo Lishen and an almost entirely new Ministry of Science.

  My father had fought so hard for the Emperor. He’d taken the empire’s failure onto his own head. That was the man I remembered, but I was learning that nothing was black-and-white. Not a subject’s loyalty to his country—not even a daughter’s memory of her father.

  The moment of reflection didn’t last long. There was some commotion overhead, and someone shouted my name. Satomi and I glanced at each other before I shot to my feet and rushed for the stairs.

  The glare of the sun blinded me as a climbed above deck. Squinting, I saw the crewman circled on the far side. Yang was already there, parting the crowd and sending his men back to their posts.

  Someone had fallen, and I knew, I knew what had happened before I saw him. With my heart in my throat, I ran to Chang-wei’s side. Makoto was trying to rouse him but moved aside as I knelt down.

  “He collapsed with no warning,” Makoto reported. “I thought the sun—”

  “It’s not the sun.” My words came out sharper than I intended, but there was no time for niceties. Chang-wei’s complexion was frightfully pale. I felt for a pulse at his neck.

  Nothing.

  But he seemed to be getting better. He seemed stronger that morning—

  My world tilted sideways. There was no time to cry. There was no time to wonder why. I pressed my ear to his chest, straining to hear a heartbeat.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  “His heart isn’t beating.”

  Makoto bowed his head. Above me, Yang stood silent. Even though he and Chang-wei had not gotten along, he placed a consolatory hand on my shoulder.

  I wasn’t ready to give up. “He’s not dead. The flow of qi to his heart has been blocked,” I explained, on the edge of desperation. “I have to restore the flow of energy.”

  This was unnatural. This was an intrusion forced upon a body that was still strong and healthy. I had to reverse it.

  My mind was racing. Qi energy was tied intricately to breath and pulse. The acupuncture needles in my belt—they were used to guide the body back into its rightful rhythm, but they couldn’t urge a heart to start beating again.

  I hadn’t noticed Satomi had left until she came back above deck, running toward me. In her hand was a mass of copper wire.

  She knelt on the opposite side of Chang-wei. The device in her hands was the glove from the night of the first hitokiri attack. She tore away the glove, leaving behind what looked like a metal disc with a dial on top. Two sets of wires hung from it.

  She shoved it into my hands. “Can you use this?”

  Her words seemed to come from far away. I realized what she had handed me was a container. My head pounded as I recalled the cage of blue light surrounding the hitokiri.

  Lightning in a jar.

  “This will kill him,” I protested.

  “He’s dying now.”

  The next moments came in flashes. I stared at Satomi. At Chang-wei.

  It was all there, connected. Qi. Electricity. Diagrams of internal organs. Yoshiro with an automaton’s body and an electric heart.

  I dragged open Chang-wei’s robe. His skin was still warm. My needles were in my hands. Two points. I forced my mind to focus. Two points, with energy lines that passed through the heart. Direct the flow.

  In the next moment the needles were in place. I attached the wires with steady hands. I could tremble later. I could doubt myself later.

  As I placed my hand on the dial, I met Satomi’s eyes. She wasn’t certain. I wasn’t certain, either.

  I turned the dial halfway, and nothing happened. So I cranked it all the way.

  Chang-wei’s frame jumped upon the deck, his back arching as the electricity flowed through him. Quickly I turned back the dial. The world held still as I lowered my head to his chest. Even the ocean waves seemed to have halted their sway.

  Within this stillness, I felt the beat of his heart against my cheek.

  “Don’t do that again,” I commanded, choking back tears. Chang-wei hadn’t yet regained consciousness. I held on to him a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat in my ear.

  * * *

  I was lying beside Chang-wei when he awoke later that day. He reached out to touch my hair first before saying anything.

  “Where am I?” His voice sounded scratchy, as if he’d been unconscious for a long time rather than a few hours.

  “The captain’s quarters.”

  It was the largest cabin on the ship and the most private. Chang-wei glanced about, trying to orient himself, before returning his gaze to me. His fingers curled into my hair. “Thank you.”

  He couldn’t have k
nown what had happened. Maybe I would explain it all to him later once I had time to clear it up in my own mind, but for now he was looking at me as if I was the only thing in the world.

  I didn’t say anything, merely moved closer so I could curl up against him. His arms wrapped around me, holding on tight.

  * * *

  The escape from Nagasaki had taken us off course. According to Yang, the situation in Shanghai had become too unstable to hazard a landing. I tried to ask more about that, but all he knew was that the shipping lines had been disrupted and there was news of unrest. Ningpo, a treaty port north of Shanghai we had also surrendered to the Yangguizi, would have to do.

  The journey home would take us four days by Yang’s estimation, and we all settled in as best we could.

  Chang-wei recovered steadily. After the surge of energy through his heart, the obstruction the grand physician had injected seemed to have cleared. His pulse recovered its natural rhythm, but I still kept careful watch, searching for any lingering signs of illness. Within a day, Chang-wei was well enough to even venture down into the engine room to speak to Old Liu Yentai, the ship’s engine master. They had both been colleagues in the engineering corps of the Ministry under my father.

  I found Satomi exploring the deck in the mornings, speaking with the crew. She even had Yang’s ear at times. His demeanor was all seriousness as he pointed out some part of the rigging to her.

  The third day found us all on deck, enjoying the sun. The shore was not yet visible, but I sensed the promise that it was there. At times like this, when the ship became the entirety of our world, I felt both large and small at once. Chang-wei was reclined against the quarterdeck, sketching in a notebook. I sat down beside him and peered over his shoulder.

  It was a drawing of a swordsman fitted with the steel cage armor of the hitokiri.

  “We can integrate the mechanical parts with nerve impulses using acupuncture needles,” he proposed. “The suits would be more maneuverable. Less clumsy.”

  The acupuncture biomechanics used to aid lost or broken limbs had never been employed on a large scale. Integrating a full suit to enhance a body’s strength and speed had never been heard of.