I wonder who I’m fighting for. The only people I can think of are dead.
We make our way to the center.
“Let’s keep it clean,” our ref tells us, and signals for us to bow to each other, which we do. “Fight!” the ref yells as the match starts.
“You should be wearing a helmet when you fight me,” Honda says over the communicator.
“I am wearing a helmet,” I say, noticing he’s opted for the two daggers again.
“I mean a thicker one,” he taunts me.
Honda uses his mecha to jump from side to side. He’s quick, using his dexterity to hop about. It appears much faster with him in front of me rather than watching it on a screen. Suddenly, he charges, almost catching me off guard. He makes several quick jabs with his dagger, any of which could penetrate my armor. I’m able to block them, but if I’d hesitated even a second, the battle would have been over. I do see an opportunity to strike and lunge with my sword. He deftly avoids it by stepping to the side, then gets in a kick, knocking me back. I put both my arms up to block his flurry of attacks. He bounces away, his footwork better than any I’ve seen. He’s sprightly, constantly in motion. I didn’t realize a mecha could be so fast, as I’ve always thought of them as bulkier and tanklike. But it’s clear that with the right pilot, they can move like a martial artist.
I think back to my training with Sensei and recall the defensive techniques she taught us. What can I use here? How to prepare a counterattack?
Before I can devise a plan, he accelerates at me with a speed that catches me off guard.
Criminy, he’s fast.
He gets a blow into my shoulder, rupturing the wires. A second fist strikes me in the opposite shoulder. The rush attack is unceasing, and even when I block one attack, his other hand knocks me back. I lose my sword and can’t seem to find a way out. A final blow hammers me in the chest, and I feel my mecha fall backward. I crash into the ground, and my spine takes a heavy jolt. I check the sensors. Legs and arms are still functional, but there is major damage to the chest. The red blips make it clear if I take any more hits there, the generator will give out, meaning no more power. The match will be over then. The crowd explodes in awe at Honda’s move.
Because it appears I have been badly damaged, the ref pulls Honda back and sends a message to me.
“What is your condition?” he asks, and it’s a public message that everyone can hear in the stadium.
But it’s also a respite, and the seconds I’ll gain are critical. I have to talk to buy myself some time before the battle continues. “I think I’m good. Checking the generator to make sure I can still go.” A few seconds to pretend like I’m looking over power levels.
How do I deflect the rush attack? If he comes at me like that again, it’s game over. I have to get to him before he gets to me. Should I attack? But I don’t have my sword. I carefully think about his fighting style.
“Your generator power level is normal,” the ref says. “Are you able to fight?”
“I’m able.”
“You should stay down,” Honda advises. “Get up again, and I’ll hit you so hard, I’ll knock you all the way back to Tokyo.”
I clamber to my feet, annoyed by his trash talk. There is smoke coming from my chest. He’s so much more experienced than anyone I’ve fought. Even the Javelins and NARA chimeras are no match.
Is this where the disparity in our backgrounds comes into play? He’s probably received support and training his whole life. There’s no way my skill level would come close to his. But I promised Nori a good fight. I’ve struggled too hard to come here and fail like this.
“Fight!” the ref yells.
The only chance I have is to make an attack of desperation. I sprint toward him, fully expecting him to dodge. But he stands his ground. I have to take the risk. He’ll assume I’m going to come at him and strike, so he’ll prepare a counterattack. My hope is to ram straight into him, get close, so his speed is nullified, and fight in close proximity. It’s not much of a defense, but it’s an offensive move that’ll take us both down. My stampede is such a foolhardy move, he only realizes too late what I plan to do. When he tries to evade, it only worsens the situation for him. I crash into his body, bringing both of us to the ground. I start smashing into his chest armor, pounding it with my fists. Anytime he tries to get away, I pull him back and attack more. He gets two blows into my back, so I pin down his arms, making him unable to strike. I focus my attacks on the pivot joints, trying to damage them so his limbs can’t move. Sparks are flying everywhere, and I believe victory is mine.
That’s when my mecha becomes powerless, and I’m no longer in control, my vehicle moving away from Honda’s. I don’t know what’s happened until I hear the ref ask Honda, “What is your condition?”
The referee saved Honda’s neck.
The crowd jeers. I’m flustered by the separation as well, but then remember how he saved me back when I was first knocked down. We both got one save.
“I’m ready to win,” is Honda’s reply.
We’re both badly damaged, barely standing. I grab my sword and check the gauges again. My mecha won’t be able to survive another rush attack. And I doubt he’d let me repeat my previous move. That’s also when I notice the right elbow on my mecha is broken, or at least the signal isn’t working because no matter how much I move it, it doesn’t work. On top of that, another red alert goes off, indicating a problem in the spinal pistons. I check what’s wrong.
His earlier attack was more lethal than I’d thought. My stabilizers will soon stop functioning, and I won’t be able to stand up straight. If Honda just stays away for two minutes, my mecha will collapse of its own accord. I need to find a way to balance myself, and there’s only one way I can think. I move toward the stadium walls, my back toward it, and sheathe my sword. Honda must be damaged too as he doesn’t strike right away. I circumspectly watch him, readying for another attack. When I’m close enough to the stadium wall, I fire two of my hooks into it. I’m hoping they can act as a sort of tension wire to help keep me upright after the pistons fail.
Honda is baffled, and asks, “What are you doing?” But as soon as he questions me, I think the answer dawns upon him. He also realizes I’ve found a way to keep myself upright, but he knows I’m vulnerable.
He prepares to do his rush attack.
I remember what Chieko pointed out the night before. He’ll take four rapid steps before his dagger hurricane starts. Can I counterattack him right after his fourth step? Where should I attack? I might have one chance at stopping him. If I can execute the iaijutsu right after his fourth step, the momentum from his speed will cause him to be impaled on my sword. But the timing has to be right. Too soon, and he’ll stop. Too late, and I won’t be able to get my sword out in time.
Good thing it’s my left arm that’s still functioning.
I take a deep breath, disable the warning alarms on the console just as the stabilizers fail. Fortunately, I’m able to lean against the wall, and the wires help. But if this fails, and Honda can get me off my feet, I won’t be able to recover. At the same time, he can’t merely stand back and wait for me to fall on my own.
Honda skips about, preparing himself for the attack. It comes suddenly. I count the steps. They’re four rapid beats, and as soon as I see the final step, I pull out my sword as quickly as I can. The sound of his mecha being pierced by my blade is shrill and painful. The impact causes the cockpit to shake. Honda’s mecha powers down. There is stunned silence in the crowd. I understand them as I can’t believe it worked either. I want to push Honda away, but I can’t move without losing balance.
“What is your condition?” the ref asks Honda.
Honda glowers, pressing buttons on his console. It takes him a minute to acknowledge, “My mecha is down.”
The bell rings. There are actually fireworks. There is a frenzied applause. I
lift up my left fist and shake it exultantly at the crowd.
I’ve won.
A crew rushes out with the appropriate vehicles to separate us. Cheerleaders spell out my name, using their rocket packs. I climb down the cockpit ladder and wave at the crowd. It’s hard for me to believe that they’re actually excited for me this time. I don’t know how to describe the emotion that surges through me. It’s almost like bliss, pride, and ecstasy combined. But even the words pale in comparison to how euphoric I feel. I search my memories to recall a similar emotion. There’s nothing like this. Above on the display screen, they are doing replays of the fight, and I see commentators analyzing my moves. I wave again and bow to the audience. That makes them scream even louder. I don’t want to go back down into the lockers, and I stay until the officials request for the eighth time that I descend.
* * *
• • •
Medical officials do an X-ray, making sure I have no broken bones. “Let’s check that bruise,” the doctor tells me.
I look down and see the skin below my chest is purplish black. I must have gotten the bruise during the initial stages of the fight. He checks my body for internal bleeding, presses against my stomach. It hurts like hell, but after he does a scan with his portical, he informs me, “I’ll prescribe you some gels. Leave them on overnight, and you’ll be healed up by the morning.”
In the shower, I feel the pain on my stomach as the hot water makes the affected area sting. I decrease the heat, then think back to the crowd’s reaction. I make swinging motions in the shower, recall that final sword draw that got Honda.
After I clean up, I get dressed and enter the hallway. There’s a wall with some of the most famous fighters in USJ history, champions in their respective years. Legendary pilots like Makunouchi, Ayanami, Tomokazu, Torrubia, Miyada, Gensuke Okamoto, and, of course, the first Kujira.
I have to fight her son tomorrow.
I peek at last year’s placard, which commemorates Noriko, and the year before that, Kazuhiro, who Ella mentioned. While there is small text indicating the runner-up and third place, I don’t recognize any of their names.
I will win tomorrow, I tell myself, even though a part of me feels preposterous about the statement. I barely won today. Honda is an amazing pilot.
Down the hall, I see a group of people emerging from the other locker room. It’s Honda with his family and friends. I run up to them, bow to Honda with genuine respect, knowing the fight easily could have gone the other way.
“That was a great fight. Thank you very much,” I tell him.
He stares coldly at me and leaves. None of his group gives me any reaction. It is a slight, though an understandable one.
“Don’t take it personally,” a stranger says, exiting the locker room. “He’s never fought such a good pilot before. Nicely done. I’m Kazu.”
“Kazu, as in Kazuhiro, captain of the Five Tigers?”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing too bad, I hope?”
“No, of course not. But I did hear you served together with Honda.”
“And he hasn’t changed. He still relies too much on speed and leaves himself vulnerable to attack. Which you exploited very nicely.”
“Thank you,” I say, with a slight bow.
He shakes his head. “Forget the formalities,” he says. “Whether you win or not, you and Kujira will get invitations to the Five Tigers.” Kazu is of Spanish heritage, has purple hair elaborately crafted like a bird’s crest. He walks with poise and confidence, at ease not just with himself but the world around him. He wears a necklace of bullets on top of his uniform and a red sash that brilliantly clashes with his uniform.
“Will Honda be the fifth?”
Kazu shakes his head. “There was a cadet named Chieko who technically didn’t lose, so she’ll get the final invitation. Speaking of which.” And he gestures behind me.
It’s Chieko, who gives me a fist bump. “Congratulations!”
“You too!”
Chieko bows to Kazu, and says, “Hello, Kazu-san.”
“You’re making me feel old,” he says. “Drop the san and let me treat you two to ramen. What flavor you feel like? Assari, kotteri, tsukumen, or USJ-style?”
“I’ve always wanted to try Aiyas,” Chieko suggests excitedly, “but there was a three-hour wait last time I went.”
Kazu grins. “Let me deal with that.”
* * *
• • •
It’s sprinkling outside, and fog has already swarmed in, making it the perfect atmosphere for hot ramen. When we arrive, the restaurant is packed with people, and I overhear someone who tries to sign up being told the wait is at least three hours. I’m too hungry to wait that long. But as soon as the hostess sees Kazuhiro, she invites us in. Patrons are jammed together, so it takes us a while to navigate to our seats at the bar. The smell inside is making me hungry. Kazu thanks her in Japanese, and she replies, “You know you don’t have to thank me.”
Chieko is impressed. “How did you do that?”
“Perks of being a mecha cadet,” Kazu says. “I highly recommend their spicy miso with an extra pork chashu, and if you’re extra brave, you can try their mega beef ramen challenge. You drinking?”
“Hai!” Chieko replies.
“I’ll have a drink too,” I chime in.
Kazu shakes his head. “No drinking before piloting. You need to be sharp tomorrow.”
He’s right, of course, and I nod in confirmation.
“If you had picked a weapon other than a sword, what would you have done for Honda’s last attack?” Kazu suddenly asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’d have to be in the situation to know.”
“You should know. You should know how you’ll face every opponent with whatever weapon you have. What would you have done?” he asks Chieko.
“It would depend on the weapon, but I’d do close-quarter combat where his speed is nullified, just like you did after your first fall,” Chieko says.
“Honda loves close-quarter combat, and there wouldn’t be any guarantee of victory.”
“What would you have done?” she asks Kazu.
“I’m faster than he is, so I would destroy him before he even knew what hit him,” he replies confidently, not boastfully, as though it were a foregone conclusion. “You both need to optimize your posture. You can’t think like a human. You have to study weight distribution on your mecha to understand how to move quicker and make adjustments on the knee and elbow joint positions to match your fighting style. The adjustable kinematics also play a key role, depending on the terrain and the weapon you’re using. That millisecond difference can change the flow of battle completely.”
I hadn’t thought about weight and posture specific to a mecha, though it makes sense since I do it subconsciously. I move differently to compensate for lag, gravity, and motion when I’m piloting. Practice makes it come intuitively, but hearing Kazu spell it out is interesting. A waiter brings out beer, and we make a toast to “Victory.” I lift up my teacup and cheer.
The ramen arrives a minute later, and we slurp up the noodles. The broth is rich, with just the right amount of spiciness. The pork chashu is so tender, it practically melts in my mouth. They must have seasoned it well because there’s a lot of flavor in every bite. The egg yolk is just wet enough to evoke a strong taste. I believe this is the best ramen I’ve ever had and let them know as much.
Chieko laughs. “Maybe the best ramen in Berkeley, but there’s much better ramen in Los Angeles, and I won’t even get into the main island.”
Kazu eats only a third of his ramen and puts it aside. I’ve devoured most of the ramen in my bowl and stare curiously at his food.
“I have to watch my diet,” Kazu explains. “Both of you have to be strictly disciplined with what you eat.”
“Why?” Chieko asks.
“Diet plays a big part of being a pilot. You need a nutritious, balanced meal to optimize energy. Strict limits on carbohydrates and sugar intake. I let myself indulge on special occasions, but I strictly watch the balance through my portical.”
“So you’re not finishing the rest of your beer?” Chieko asks.
Kazu drinks it down.
“If you decide to join the Five Tigers, I expect both of you to follow the same strict regimen we do to keep in peak shape,” Kazu says.
I think about Kujira being forced to follow a regimen and laugh.
“You find this amusing?”
“No, I am actually excited about this,” I say, and I mean it. I love how seriously he is taking every aspect of piloting.
“What do you think it is we do?” Kazu asks us. “This is serious business we’re involved in. Talent only takes you so far. Instincts can betray you. Cold, hard discipline is the closest you can get to something reliable. And even that can fail you if you don’t have the nerves. We can’t afford to fail if we’re to be the bastion of the United States of Japan.”
“Good point,” Chieko says. “But can I gorge until I actually join the Five Tigers?”
Kazu grins. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”
* * *
• • •
Chieko and I head back to our dorm to watch Kujira’s fights. We look for patterns, but his style is different in every match. It’s almost like he’s liquid adapting to anyone’s attack stance. We try to find vulnerabilities and weaknesses but don’t see anything.
“I don’t know how I’m going to beat him,” I confess.
Mecha Samurai Empire Page 26