The Final Wars Begin

by S A Asthana

  Bastien studied the calf wound through the rip in his jeans. It had scabbed over in the past hour. Pus and blood were absent. Marie’s wound wasn’t visible, on account of the black jumpsuit she now sported. Her clothing had been found hanging, along with several others of its kind, in the storage closet.

  The moon's grey craters and black shadows loomed large outside the windshield. An alien world, sure, but a world that now harbored the most prosperous slice of humanity. A sequence of satellites orbited only meters away, their red lights blinking against white metal as they connected with the Kitsune’s markers and verified its authenticity. Nippon One’s defense systems were a finely tuned network of over a hundred satellites encircling the moon, forming a security web. With one shot their laser destroyers could obliterate a rogue ship or the many pirate vessels permanently hunting space between the colonies. Bastien hoped bandits looking to loot euphoria shipments weren’t in the cards. Nipponese water trawlers made for excellent narcotic transportation—an open secret.

  So far so good.

  A green light blinked on the console, signaling an incoming communication. The computer stated, “Conversation request from Nippon One. Sender, Emperor Akiyama Honda. Accept or decline?”

  Marie sat upright and tied her unkempt hair into a bun. “Let me do all the talking.” She then commanded, “Computer, accept comm.”

  “Opening lines of communication.”

  The first indication of Akiyama’s presence on the audio line was a series of heavy breaths. Bastien waited for either him or Marie to speak up but none did. The silence was uncomfortable. Marie’s eyes were cast downward. Were those tears?

  Akiyama boomed over the speaker, “I got your distress signal. So, it is true? New Paris is destroyed?”

  “Yes,” Marie confirmed, her voice surprisingly meek.

  More deep breaths. More silence. “I watched the satellite feeds.”

  “I had hoped you’d send backup,” Marie said.

  The exchange was more awkward than Bastien anticipated. He’d never actually witnessed the two speaking to one another. There’d never been a joint newscast or anything. It was strange to see Marie so demure.

  “If I had sent backup, it would have been a declaration of war against Port Sydney, you know.” Akiyama’s voice was stern.

  “But… I almost died.”

  “Then you should have been more careful. Rumor is you shot down a Martian military craft. Is this true?”

  “No,” she sobbed. “I was framed.”

  Framed? Bastien looked over with a raised eyebrow. Where was she going with this?

  “My sister framed me. She brought down that craft and made it seem like it was me. Somehow, she managed to convince Crone.”

  Unbelievable. Well, it was true Belle had crashed the craft, yes, but there was never any intent to frame. If anything, Belle had burned with guilt. And her having a conversation with Crone was a complete fabrication. All lies to cover Marie’s own missteps.

  “Before I knew it, the Martians had attacked.” She wiped away a tear.

  There was no way the Emperor would believe this. The animosity between New Paris and Port Sydney was public knowledge. He had to see Marie playing the victim card.

  “Most unfortunate,” Akiyama sighed. “I had a feeling though, to be honest. You, my desert rose, could never be so foolish.”

  Desert rose?

  “You were right about Belle all along,” Akiyama said. “She didn’t care about New Paris. She just wanted to destroy it. And you with it.”

  “I only wanted her to come back and lead with me.” Marie’s face was buried in her hands. “But she never cared for me, even when we were kids.”

  Unreal.

  “She was not fit to lead,” Akiyama said.

  Belle’s memory was being desecrated. Bastien’s hands curled into fists.

  “I have lost everything,” Marie cried. “My father, my people, my city. They are all gone.”

  “I will take care of you, my rose,” Akiyama said in a baritone mixed with the comfort of a pillow. “Come to me.”

  “Are you… sure?” Marie straightened her back. “Mars might not like that.”

  Was that a smile? A master manipulator. Sociopath. The Queen of Deception.

  “The Sydneysiders can’t dislike what they don't know. You died in the attack. That will be the official statement.”

  “I am forever grateful.” Marie lifted her head. The tears were gone. The faucet had been turned off as if on cue.

  “I will send my personal escort craft to rendezvous with you. Board it. You will be brought directly to my penthouse.”

  “Thank you, my emperor.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “Only my bodyguard—err, Viktor.”

  Akiyama took a deep breath and closed the conversation, “Not optimal, but all right. I will see you shortly.” The green light waned to black.

  Bastien and Marie stared at one another for several breaths, his frown cruelly mirrored by her wicked smile. She leaned towards him, elbow resting on the armrest. “I think the words you are looking for are, ‘Thank you.’”

  She released a giddy cackle, her eyes wide and fixed on his all the while. A hyena. New Paris and its dead were already forgotten. Events from just two hours ago were now distant memories. Belle had died for nothing.

  “That’s how it’s done.” She snapped her fingers a few times. “And to think… you doubted me? Not only will I get us into Nips, but I will also get you your freedom, Bastien.”

  She would be a smash hit in the Nipponese movies. A real sorceress of emotions. The Parisian debutante.

  Marie held out her hand to inspect a nail. She instructed, “Bastien is dead. You are now Viktor. Got it? Vik-tor. Go into the bathroom and find yourself the electric shaver by the sink. Shave off your hair. And your eyebrows too. But leave the scruff on your face. And change out of those damn clothes. They stink. There are extra jumpsuits in the closet.”

  “Viktor.” Bastien allowed the name to roll around his tongue. It tasted foreign.

  “You will disappear into Nip’s masses, never to be chased again. No more running and hiding from the law. Viktor will be a free man. Consider us even, mon amour.”

  Marie always played the upper hand. Monsters had a knack for it. And to think he’d doubted her abilities. How foolish.

  ∆∆∆

  Bastien stood in the small bathroom at the rear of the storage bay. Crafts even this small and ancient were equipped with gravity grids. His balance remained intact. With a final buzz, he shaved off the last black strand on his head. An unrecognizable reflection stared back. Bastien was dying. Viktor was being born. What was this man about? His likes and dislikes? His desires?

  “You forgot the eyebrows,” a voice said.

  Father Paul stood just behind Bastien’s reflection. A light in the dark. There was an earnestness in his face. His thick lips parted. “Do you feel lost, my child?” The voice was a sun in space’s cold expanse.

  Bastien’s gaze dropped to the sink. Hair littered the white bowl. Each lock represented something of his. Integrity and ethics were in there somewhere. He mumbled, “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

  Father Paul put a hand on his shoulder. It warmed the muscle. He said, “You, my dear Bastien, are what you have always been.”

  Bastien’s eyes locked with the Father’s reflection.

  “An extension of me.” The old man patted his chest.

  Bastien hung his head. “No. I am a monster.”

  “No,” Father Paul pressed. “Why put yourself down?” He was beaming a sun-bright smile. “Look for the positive-”

  “In the negative,” Bastien finished.

  “Yes, my child. Those are words to live by.”

  Bastien’s head still hung. “But there is no positive here. I triggered their destruction, Father. Parisians, Belle—all gone. All my fault.”

  “No, Bastien. One man couldn’t possibly unleash such hell,” the
old man countered. “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.”

  “But Belle would still be alive,” Bastien cut in. “No, it’s my fault. All mine. My righteousness led to all this.”

  Father Paul crossed his arms. “Tsk, tsk – still sullen, eh? We cannot control everything, my dear boy. The universe and all its happenings are God’s will.” When Bastien didn’t respond, he added, “Proverbs 3:5-6. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”

  The words were familiar. The rush of anger that followed wasn’t.

  “Bullshit,” Bastien spat. He turned to face the old man and said, “You still speak of God. There is no god. Only monsters.”

  “This is not true.” Father Paul’s smile disappeared.

  “I am a monster,” Bastien said through gritted teeth. “I only run and hide. No matter the cost. A monster amongst monsters.”

  “Bastien, you mustn’t speak this way of yourself,” Father Paul protested, his voice strained. His face was long, his eyes were drooped, and his skin seemed transparent.

  “Go away, Father. You died the day the cancer took you.” Bastien turned back to the mirror. As he lifted the shaver to his eyebrows, he found himself alone again. The bathroom was space-cold. The Father, the vision, it all seemed a distant dream. Unreal. The only thing real was the craft’s metal smell.

  “Incoming craft,” the Kitsune’s computer announced. “Passengers, take a seat.”

  ∆∆∆

  The sleek, white Nissan 2.0 Escort was half the Kitsune’s size, compact as a medicine capsule. A spindly, multi-jointed mechanical arm protruded from the blunt nose and hooked into a clamp on Kitsune, pulling the two crafts together in a parallel position. The operation played start to finish on a screen in the cockpit. Bastien couldn’t help admire it. He had conducted ‘The Kiss’ himself at least a hundred times when flying Martian crafts, but never this well.

  The Kitsune shook only slightly during the procedure. By the end of it, the two crafts were touching side to side, their entrance doors cupped together to create one single interior when they were opened. It was a marvel of technical maneuvering. Half the credit went to the Nissan’s pilot, the other to the Kitsune’s autopilot.

  A screen on the dashboard flashed, “Crafts synced and connection locked. Craft in sleep-mode.”

  The Kitsune’s engines powered down, but not entirely. They remained firing just enough to keep the craft from drifting out of place. The Nissan did the same, coordinating its engine’s mini-bursts with the Kitsune’s. Bastien unbuckled himself. Marie, who’d done the same, grabbed his arm and whispered, “Do as they say.”

  The exits slid open to reveal a slight man not much larger than Marie. He was dressed in a crisp navy blue uniform—a tight, button-down shirt, slim trousers, and freshly polished dress shoes. He wore a fitted cap atop his head, one imprinted with the emblem of Nippon One, a red sun within a white rectangle. Stepping into the Kitsune, he motioned with his head for a line of men to follow. The group trailed in. They were dressed similar to their leader, but were giants in comparison, and appeared much older, closer to Bastien in age. The man-boy in the front was barely out of his teens.

  He approached Marie with slow but firm steps, his eyes trained on her. His men clustered around the storage bay, their fists clenched by their sides. Bastien assumed a similar stance. He was, after all, Marie’s bodyguard.

  “Konnichiwa, Queen Marie,” the baby-faced leader greeted, taking a formal, deeper bow.

  She curtsied like some regal ballet dancer. “I am honored, your highness.”

  Your Highness? This teen did seem polished in his mannerisms. Small, but steady movements, as if rehearsed hundreds of times.

  “My father sent me to escort you personally,” he said, his words thick with a Nipponese accent. Was there a tinge of disdain? It was hard to tell. The boy’s face was difficult to read. Bastien didn’t recognize him. Emperor Akiyama had three sons, only one of which, the eldest, was a public figure as direct heir to the throne. The other two were outside the public spotlight. This must be the youngest, Reo Honda.

  “Please board our craft,” he said. “I will take you to his residence.” He then turned to eye the crates in the storage bay. Pointing at them, he asked, “Red Comet?”

  “Red Comet,” Marie confirmed with a self-satisfied smile. “Enough to net over a billion yen.”

  Reo nodded. He motioned for his men to start transferring the crates to the escort craft. They followed suit hastily. It was odd to see this boy command such respect from men who could break him like a toothpick. Royalty always had its perks. Turning to Marie, he held out his arm towards the exit. “Please, make yourself comfortable in the escort vehicle.”

  She nodded and made her way over. Before exiting, she peeked back at Bastien without emotion. Their eyes locked for a second. She blinked goodbye. And then, unceremoniously, she was gone.

  Bastien followed, but Reo put a slim hand against his pec. “You will not be escorting her.” He studied Bastien’s eyes. Does he recognize me? Damn these golden eyes.

  “I am her personal security,” Bastien protested.

  “Not anymore.” Reo shook his head. “Your services will not be required any longer.”

  One of the Prince’s men had put down a crate and was standing watch over the scene. He cracked a fist into his other hand. A Howa pistol was visible on the belt.

  “I- I don’t understand,” Bastien shrugged. “Am I supposed to just turn back?”

  His heart beat fast. Being asked to head back to Earth was as good as a death sentence. It would make more sense to be shot right here, right now. End of the road.

  “No,” Reo said, his voice thicker than his frame let on. “You will be granted access to Nippon One.”

  He held a red card out between two slender fingers. The words ‘Gaijin Visa’ were printed in bold letters.

  “It is for a foreigner. It will get you through our customs and security. You can use this to set up your life in the city. Close to ten thousand yen have been deposited onto an account. It can be used for payment and identification. It should be sufficient for you to find shelter while you look for a job.”

  As Bastien took the card, Reo added, “Do not lose this card. It is your life. If you do, you will be no better than an illegal in our city. Sought out and shot. Got it, Viktor? That is your name, right?”

  Bastien nodded. The card was stowed away in his black jumpsuit’s pocket. Reo turned about abruptly and said something to his men in Japanese. They laughed. Bastien shot confused glances from right to left. The Japanese language was as alien to him as his mother’s lullaby. He scratched his brow, feeling skin where there should have been eyebrows. He did look funny without them. A yellow-eyed ghost. Is that what they were laughing at? Or do they know my real identity?

  As the last crate was hauled out, Bastien shifted focus to Nippon One. His interaction with the colony and its residents had been minimal. Besides a few joint military exercises conducted out in the Martian Outback, there was nothing else to work off of. No common jump-off point. Their customs, language, values—it was all different.

  The Kitsune’s door shut and the computer’s voice resounded over the speaker, “Passenger, take a seat. Unlock procedure to commence in one minute.”

  Bastien secured himself in the cockpit again. A sharply defined crater loomed bright outside the windshield. The diagnostics overlaid across the double-glass pane displayed some stats— Diameter: 53 miles, Depth: 15,700 feet.

  The Tycho crater was massive. Much of it was occupied by the Nipponese dome. The city appeared more a toy globe, with thin spires and tall, skinny blocks, than a fully functioning metropolis of two million residents from this distance. There were still ten minutes left
between the Kitsune and the lunar surface.

  Metal clangs reverberated along the edges of the doorway as the escort craft decoupled itself from the Kitsune. A slight shudder rippled through the walls. The entire sequence played out on a dashboard screen. The crafts separated like a heavenly body cracking in two. The Nissan’s engines roared to life and its nose tilted down toward the colony. Then it set off, moving smoothly towards the destination. And just like that, Bastien was alone again.

  Silence. By himself with the dull humming of electronics. And the whizzing of his thoughts. No explosions, no screams—only silence. It was strange. Could his days of running and hiding finally be over?

  “Crafts separated. Please advise next steps, pilot,” Kitsune’s computer blared.

  Bastien commanded, “Resume trip.”

  “Resuming trip to Nippon One.”

  He leaned back in the bare metal chair and pulled out the red card from his pocket. Viktor.

  The days of war, destruction, and being hunted were hopefully in the rear view mirror. A road full of twists and turns that had unexpectedly led to a new life. With any luck, peace lay ahead, one where purges, intercolonial politics, and maniacal rulers wouldn’t have to be worried about. No Marie, no Cube, no Crone, no Father Paul. Or poor Belle, the undeserving casualty of a disastrous sequence of events. The true desert rose.

  Parisian ruins flashed in his mind. Broken stones and cracked limbs crying for attention. They seemed to hiss, “You did this.”

  No.

  “Repent,” they pressed.

  Stop.

  Bastien shut his eyes as if doing so would drive away the guilt. But a concern materialized—what if the battle of New Paris led to a larger conflict? A conflict between the two remaining colonies. Could Nippon One retaliate and declare war on Port Sydney? Or maybe Port Sydney would continue its warmongering, this time focused on Nippon One. If either of those scenarios played out, the destruction of New Paris, and by extension Bastien, would be immortalized as the trigger. The flashpoint. The first domino to push down all others. World War One’s domino was Archduke Franz Ferdinand. The Second World War had Chancellor Adolf Hitler. World War Three was triggered by a rogue terrorist organization, one unhappy with global politics of the time.