Mecha Samurai Empire

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Mecha Samurai Empire Page 11

by Peter Tieryas


  There’s a knock on my door. I put on my trainers and open it. I’m surprised to see my medic, Minako. She’s wearing a pink cap, denim overalls, and sequined shoes split into a hundred even pieces.

  “I heard they sent you here,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” I ask.

  “We’ll show you around Dallas Tokai.”

  “But I have to study.”

  “You studying all night?”

  “I guess I could use a break. But I’m supposed to finish the book before the three days are up.”

  “That’s what Leiko told you, right?”

  “Who?”

  “Your Sensei,” she clarifies.

  “She gave the orders.”

  “Believe me when I tell you she’ll be okay with you taking a night off. You have any other clothes?” she asks, peering at my training suit.

  “Not with me.”

  “We’ll have to buy something on the way.”

  “On the way where?”

  “To the Bertoli,” she answers. “It’s the new discotheque in town.”

  We meet her boyfriend outside the base, where he’s waiting for us in his car. “Izanagi,” he introduces himself. “But everyone calls me Izzy. Min says you’re a RAM?”

  I take that to be abbreviated for RAMDET. “In training.”

  I get in the backseat, and Minako takes shotgun. The sun is out late for the summer evening but is slowly melting into the buildings beyond. Izzy drives us out of the parking lot.

  “You RAMs get more action than we do,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We guard the city, but we’re never allowed to leave. They usually keep the Quiet Border clear of our forces to keep it strictly neutral. RAMs are technically civilian and have a deal with the Nazis, so y’all can enter Texarkana Fortress and escort trains through the border.”

  “Are you in the mecha corps?” I venture to ask.

  “I am.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a navigator.”

  Navigators chart the paths and constantly check terrain to make sure it’s suitable for the mecha to traverse. They have to monitor composition of the ground in case it’s not strong enough to support the weight of a full mecha. There are at least five battles I can think of in which a minor navigational mistake cost the mecha corps victory. I know this thanks to my mom, who was also a navigator. Izzy has to be very smart to have that position.

  “That’s amazing,” I say.

  He shrugs as he drives. “Not really. I do nothing since we never go anywhere. See that cluster over there?” Right above the Ida Train Station, I see the towering figure of four Sentry-class mechas. They’re bulkier, rounder, and more stalwart than the Korosu classes I saw during the fight a few months back. “The one on the left is the Fuka, which is where I serve. To be honest, I don’t know if the legs work anymore.”

  “Izzy,” Minako says reprovingly. “Peace is a good state to be in.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “It sounds like you are.”

  “Not like them Nazis are waiting around doing nothing. Texarkana Fortress is their hellish Yomi on earth.”

  They make jabs at each other, the typical needling couples engage in. I look out the window. Dallas isn’t as shiny or electric as Los Angeles, but it’s a huge city in its own right, especially the farther west away from the border we drive. It’s not long before we arrive at the Ura-Hara Shopping District, which is ten streets full of clothing stores.

  “What kind of clothes do you like?” Min asks.

  I’m puzzled by the question as it’s one I’ve never been asked before. I confess, “I’ve never been shopping for clothes before.”

  “Never?”

  I search my memory and am forced to shake my head. “I’ve always worn school-issued attire.”

  “Just get him a z-cloak,” Izzy suggests.

  “Good idea. They’re so convenient,” Minako says.

  Ten minutes later, she brings back clothing that looks like a regular cloak. But when I put it on, it fits snugly to the contour of my body. Minako inputs commands into her portical that change my z-cloak’s visual appearance to resemble a silk shirt and black dress pants. She asks for my portical and sends me access codes for my z-cloak attribute interface. I scroll through, and can change the length of my sleeves (the z-cloak will make surfaces transparent), adjust material appearance to whatever I want from fleece to purple leather, and scale overall size, making it baggy or tight-fitting. The hood is detachable and can be used to switch between a jacket, hoodie, and turtleneck sweater.

  “Best way to travel light,” Minako says.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  Minako smiles. “Forget it. It’s an honor to take you on your first shopping trip.”

  I bow to them both and thank them.

  “You’re too polite, kid,” Izzy says, though I can tell both are pleased. That’s when I notice he has a shin guntō sword with a special holster in the driver’s seat. He notices my gaze. “Had this custom built at Albuquerque. Don’t let the snobs fool you into thinking that only the Toyokawa swords are good. They mass-produce those. This is customized for me.” It has the carvings of a shark on its hilt. Most of the officer swords from Toyokawa Naval Arsenal are standard-issue with no special designs.

  “That sword has only one use,” Minako states.

  I find out what it is when we arrive at the Bertoli. The front door is crowded with hundreds of people, but Izzy takes us to the side and valets the car with the attendant. “VIP entrance,” Minako explains. “Only for mecha corps members.”

  Sure enough, when the pale bouncer in a robot kimono sees Izzy’s sword, he waves us through without a question.

  Inside, there is a museum of older robots. I espy synthetic waitresses, gladiatorial machines from the seventies, and portical-driven humanoids that mimic historical figures like Mussolini and Rommel. There’s even the hulking armor of a corgi prototype suit called ODIN that the engineers fit with machine guns and toe pistols.

  The servers are dressed as sleek robots with silver makeup. The discotheque has multiple floors, and each is based on a different decade. We go to the sixties stage, which is full of older designs, gaudy lights, and restoration-era architecture. Our booth is among a hundred others with velvet seats. There’s already a bottle of vodka waiting for us. “Sake never gets us drunk,” Minako says. “Especially the hot kind.”

  Izzy pours vodka into his glass and Minako’s. “You drinking?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. He puts the bottle down. Minako and he toast, then take the shot. He quickly pours another, and they take three shots straight.

  Izzy doesn’t handle it so well, and his face turns red. Minako orders pork skewers, which they bring along with wasabi-coated macadamias.

  “Why’d you join the RAMs?” Izzy asks me.

  I don’t think there’s any point in hiding the truth. “Because I want to be a mecha pilot.”

  “I wanted to be a pilot too, but my reflex sync scores weren’t high enough.”

  “You should have spent more time practicing,” Minako says.

  “I was too busy chasing an elusive someone,” Izzy objects, which makes Min simper. “Was worth it in the end. I have a cushy job. Plus, don’t have to deal with Nazi biomechs.”

  “You’ve fought them?” I ask. Very little record of German biomechs is public.

  “No. But I’ve seen combat footage. You ever see a biomech?”

  “Just the stuff they’ve released.”

  “They’re terrifying. Even before they attack, dozens of gnats swarm the mechas.”

  “What are gnats?” I ask.

  “These black drones with rockets on ’em that wear their opponents down. They make this gnashing soun
d right before they attack, and it’s like a fog of artificial bugs. That’s just to get you nice and vulnerable, so the monster has you in a weak spot.” He looks at me like he’s going to make a point, then says, “I gotta use the bathroom,” before stumbling away.

  Min shakes her head. “At least he’s a jovial drunk. I hate mean drunks.”

  “Why’d you join the RAMs?” I ask her.

  She pours herself another drink and rolls the vodka around her cup. “Because I hated the army medical corps. There were too many dead to deal with.” She takes a shot. “In the RAMs, I can actually help people instead of trying to stitch them back together so they can get killed or kill someone else.”

  “Were you in San Diego?”

  “I was. Along with your Sensei, Leiko.”

  “She served?”

  “As an engineer. A damn good one from what I understand. We all graduated VMI together.” That’s the Vancouver Military Institute.

  “How did she go from the corps to the RAMs?”

  “Her squadron was out on a mission in San Diego when they were ambushed. Some unidentified mecha fought them off the shore right before they were going to attack the George Washingtons. They were immobilized and ended up blocking a road. Their lead mecha destroyed them to clear the route. She lost everyone on board and barely escaped with her life. By the time she got out, the GWs had already broken through the wall.”

  “How’d she survive?”

  “Colonel Yamaoka saved her. A lot of people in the USJ owe him their lives.”

  Colonel Noboru Yamaoka, the hero of the second San Diego Conflict, designed the brilliant Irvine Trap that decisively ended the George Washington revolt. It’s still considered one of the most ingenious, and bloody, strategies ever implemented.

  “She still doesn’t talk about it,” Minako continued. “I’ve heard from others that the GWs actually shot her while she was on the field but kept her alive to torture her. She struggled for days, trying her best to get away. When some of our soldiers finally found her, they tried to rescue her but were killed from mines the GWs had set up around her as bait. The—”

  Izzy returns and has seven others with him who are from Izzy’s battalion. Two of them transferred from Mongolia, and another, a man who has dyed his hair blue, introduces himself as Orwell. “I transferred from Fargo Station up north,” he explains.

  The rest came here directly from Vancouver Military Institute. The Vancouver graduates take a toast. “Longevity,” they toast, “and booze.”

  “Mac here wants to be a mecha pilot!” Izzy says. “We should all put in a rec for him.” He gives me a friendly elbow. “We like to spread the misery of the corps.”

  The others laugh and drink to that. They engage in familiar banter about Dallas, failed romances, and redundant military exercises.

  Orwell, who served on the Fargo Wall, says, “The Nazis are like fleas. They play their loud operas all night just to annoy us. I don’t think they ever sleep. At least here, Texarkana is far enough you don’t have to deal directly with them.”

  “Orwell doesn’t like Germans,” Minako says to me.

  “I don’t trust ’em. Look how many there are in this club. Is this still the United States of Japan? Do you know they laugh at us for bowing whenever we see them? I don’t bow to Nazis no more.”

  My eyes wander over to the German crowd, and I spot someone who looks familiar.

  “Mac. You okay?” Minako asks.

  I point at the blond-haired woman in a black dress. “I think I know her.”

  “Go say hi!” Minako says, then pushes me in her direction.

  The closer I get, the less certain I am it’s her. With the lights changing every few seconds and dancers swarming by, I get more nervous. When I’m almost next to her, I see that she’s wearing lipstick and has cut her hair shorter, but it is Griselda. I’m ecstatic.

  “Griselda!” I call out, still wanting to get auditory confirmation in case my eyes are deceiving me.

  “What do you want?” she snaps.

  I’m surprised by her response and hope it’s because she doesn’t realize who I am. “It’s me. Mac.”

  She looks carefully at me. “Mac? You—you look so different.” She immediately brightens and hugs me.

  “It’s the training,” I explain. “We’ve been running a lot. If you still run in the mornings, I guarantee I can keep up.”

  “I bet you can. You’ve grown taller.”

  I realize that I’m taller than her now. “What are you doing here?” I ask her.

  “I got transferred to Texarkana. But it’s so dreary and bleak there, I couldn’t stand it, so I’m studying in Dallas Tokai for a year.”

  “What are you studying?” Behind Griselda, I see Minako, with her thumbs up and a wide smile.

  “USJ history,” she replies. “It’s shocking how much the Empire achieved in such a short time. Do you want a drink?” she asks.

  “I, uh . . . Sure. Actually, I haven’t had alcohol before.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s just never been the right occasion.”

  She perks up. “Then we can break your beer virginity! But the beer here isn’t as good as back home. Can you believe the Americans made drinking illegal?” Griselda asks.

  “They did?”

  “A long time ago. It was for, like, a decade. They thought drinking was ‘immoral.’”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Tell me about it. People still wanted to drink, so they had to do it illegally. They had American yakuza who distributed the alcohol, and people literally died for beer. Can you think of a dumber thing to die for?”

  “Unless the beer was really good?” I offer.

  She laughs. “I guess there are some drinks worth dying for. Unfortunately, you won’t find any here. I take it you’re a RAM?”

  “I am,” I state.

  I explain in brief about the past few months. She listens attentively and asks questions about this and that.

  “You really think you’re going to get the chance to pilot a mecha?” she asks.

  The truth is I have no idea. But I tell her, “I’m going to keep on trying.”

  “At least you have a dream you’re fighting for.”

  “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m wasting my time pursuing this. It’s a long shot, and there are no guarantees this’ll amount to anything.”

  “The Fuehrer had even less than you, and he became the ruler of Germany,” Griselda tells me, which isn’t exactly a comforting example to follow even though she seems moved by the comparison. “I hate people who give up. Most of my older relatives live lives of regret and make it miserable for everyone around them because they’re so unhappy.”

  “Is it regret that they failed at something or that they never tried?”

  “A combination, I think? If you gave it your best shot and failed, then it wasn’t meant to be. I think I can live with that. You hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Let’s go eat!”

  “Are you—are you here with anyone?”

  Griselda grimaces. “I was. But he threw a fit, and I don’t have the patience to deal with him tonight. C’mon—I’ll take you to my new favorite bistro, and then we can have some good drinks afterward.”

  She goes to grab her jacket.

  I want to greet Minako and Izzy before leaving.

  They both give me jocular grins, and say, “Have fun.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It never is until it is.”

  “I’ll try to be back at the dorm before midnight,” I say.

  “There’s no curfew,” Minako replies, reminding me I’m not in training camp anymore.

  Griselda comes back with her jacket, and I introduce them to her. They greet her warmly. All excerpt Orwell, who ask
s, “Are you German?”

  “Half,” she answers, with a bright smile.

  “What are you thinking?” Orwell asks me angrily.

  “Relax, Orwell,” Izzy says.

  But Orwell glowers, and says, “Do you know how many of our compatriots have died because of Nazis? Do you know what they do to their own people?”

  “Nothing less than what the Empire does,” Griselda snaps back.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” he snarls, and turns back to me. “You want to be a mecha pilot, but you’re friends with a Nazi. That’s not the way it works.”

  “Griselda’s not like that. We’re friends from high school.”

  “A Nazi’s a Nazi. If you were thinking straight, you’d know how dishonorable this is.”

  “She’s my friend,” I affirm. “I don’t care what nationality she is.”

  “Then you have no place in the mecha corps or as a RAM.”

  “That’s not for you to say.”

  “It is. And I’ll be sure to let everyone know that too.”

  “Stop it, Orwell!” Izzy and Minako yell.

  “I hate Nazis,” Orwell says. “Even seeing them makes me sick. You don’t deal with them every day. You don’t see the way they torture their prisoners along the wall.”

  I’m about to retort back, but Griselda puts her hand on my arm. “You’ve made your point. I suggest you shut up,” Griselda firmly warns. “As a foreigner, I’ll be patient, but I won’t let you malign my people anymore.”

  “Your people? The Nazis are a cancer to—”

  Griselda roundhouses Orwell in the face, knocking him to the floor. Immediately, his Vancouver classmates surround Griselda. “I told you to shut your mouth!” Griselda yells.

  That’s when several Germans appear, asking Griselda if she’s okay. This enrages Orwell’s classmates, who respond with fists. Fighting breaks out as Orwell gets to his feet, and shouts, “I piss on Hitler an—” But before he can finish, a barstool smashes him in the face.

  Another of Orwell’s goons charges Griselda. I rush to try to grab him from behind. Griselda hurls a fist, though the guy ducks just in time for her punch to hit me in the eye. “Mac! Are you okay?” she exclaims.

 

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