The Final Wars Rage Read online

  “But this is unprecedented,” the journalist pressed. “There hasn’t been an inter-colony attack in the past century. How can we be so sure this isn’t going to escalate into something larger? Something we haven’t seen or engaged in before?”

  “Miss Ota.” Akiyama crinkled his nose, a rare public display of discontent, “As I already mentioned, we are in close correspondence with them to ensure peace. No further questions.”

  The broadcast switched back to satellite imagery of carnage. The Eiffel tower lay in pieces at the edge of the screen. Without turning back around, Isao asked, “What do you think is going to happen, Viktor? War, or peace?”

  Bastien hadn’t expected the question. His mouth drained of all saliva. Licking his parched lips, he answered, “It’ll be… it’ll be fine.”

  A scene of chaos, New Paris’s final moments, flashed in front of him like a hologram refusing to shut down even after the power button was switched off. In his own horror show the Bastille Market’s ruins displayed vividly as if they rested within the conference room. The horror, the mangled corpses — it was all back. A dying man, his limbs charred, writhed across the floor fighting immeasurable pain in his last moments. He whispered, “You did this.”

  Bastien’s mind was a graveyard where the dead rested, rotted and tormented. He held back tears. “It’ll be just fine,” he said, his mind clouded like a fogged over cemetery. Was he trying to convince Isao or himself?

  Isao acknowledged with a nod. His focus remained on the broadcast. He said, “Do you know why I asked you to kill Ryu?”

  Bastien had an idea. “You wanted to send a signal — compete against the Yakuza and there will be certain death.” He dried his eyes for an instant with the back of his hand.

  “Yes,” Isao agreed, “but that isn’t all. You see all this carnage on the screen?” The broadcast showed a pile of rubble. “This is going to cause problems.” Isao sighed. “No more New Paris means no more dirt-cheap Euphoria.”

  A fair observation. Queen Marie Dubois had never been known for fair employment wages. Most of her laborers, the Euphoria chemists, had been indentured servants loaned by the Nipponese emperor, working for simple bare necessities. Demand for the drug wasn’t going away just because its source had been destroyed. There were other sources, more expensive production options in Nippon One. Whoever controlled those other sources in the era after New Paris would corner the Euphoria market. Isao was as aware of this as the man whose head now rested in the icebox.

  “There will be gang wars.” Isao was talking more to himself than Bastien. “Bloodbath. Destruction. But only one winner. The Yakuza will come out on top. But there are hard times ahead for Nippon One.” He finally turned back to Bastien. “You have talents that can help us, Viktor.”

  Bastien straightened his back.

  “How you got me Ryu’s head in less than a week is beyond me.” Isao leaned his elbows on the conference table, his black eyes locking with Bastien’s fiery orbs. “I am just happy you did. You can come in handy — very handy. Other organizations are going to attempt to stop me just like Ryu’s did. Guys like you could make a difference for me.”

  Bastien was being offered a job. And not just any job — the role of an assassin for the famed Yakuza. A big deal. To make it into the Yakuza’s ranks either required connections or unparalleled skill. Even up in Port Sydney, the Yakuza’s abilities, methods and history were well known. The Martian army had once helped quell a Yakuza uprising years back, before Bastien’s enlistment, and lost many good soldiers. The syndicate’s wrath had become legendary since that famed battle. Mythic, even. He could have never imagined one day standing before the fearsome organization’s oyabun.

  “I will give you a few days to think it through,” Isao said, “because once you commit, you commit for life.”

  Bastien nodded, his gaze down to the floor. A few days to mull over this new opportunity, or deathtrap — a Yakuza assassin rarely lived to age forty.

  “I will tell you this,” Isao said. “If you do right by me, the money will be very good. Many of my men own luxury condos overlooking Tokyo Park. You should see their harems. No less than the Emperor’s.” He flashed a crooked smile. Dangling shiny objects — he didn’t seem to be above that. “Two days. Let me know then.”

  A figure interrupted the conversation. Hayato walked into the conference room with his chest out and brushed past Bastien as if on purpose. Heading over to Isao, he whispered something into the man’s ear. A look of frustration wrinkled the oyabun’s heavy features. Isao complained, “Seems like the war is picking up faster than I thought.”

  The boss unfolded from his chair, his larger than life presence defying his diminutive, five-foot-three frame. Isao and Hayato headed to the double mahogany doors, but just before exiting, Isao stopped and turned towards Bastien. In a matter of fact tone, he said, “Make that twenty-four hours. Be here by this time tomorrow if you’re in.”

  When he was gone, the room felt lighter. A slew of emotions wrestled within Bastien — pride, anxiety. Guilt lowered his gaze. A lone roach made its way across the white carpet by his boots. It stopped as if realizing it was under watch. Just a split second away from a crushing death and there was nothing it could do about it. Bastien stomped it and swiveled his boot left to right. The cockroach was ripped into tiny pieces.

  “How low can you go, big boy?” Belle sat cross-legged at the opposite end of the conference table. She wore sleek, white smart shades across her eyes, but he could still feel her stare searing through his.

  ∆∆∆

  Bastien stepped out of the side alley and merged into Kabukicho’s hustle and bustle. Cheap perfume mixed with the stench of tuna. The rich brushed shoulders with the poor, albeit condescendingly. Tacky neon signs displaying a mix of kanji, hiragana and katakana scripts clung to every building. Alleys cut away, their darkness punctured by gambling dens and brothels. Food stalls and sex consultants, the fancy term for foreign prostitutes who worked outside the confines of established brothels, dotted the streets. There were striptease acts at intersections being applauded by lusting onlookers in a neighborhood rife with sin.

  Bastien wasn’t just trekking through it, he was fraternizing with its cruelest inhabitants. Blending into this new city in the worst way. A familiar, female voice grazed his ears, “How low can you get?”

  “Stop it!” Bastien screamed, his fingertips squeezing the skin on his shaved skull as if to crush the encroaching voice. “Get out of my head.” The crowd created distance from him. Crazy, and foreign freak, those were some of the insults hurled, but he didn’t care. He stared back at the crowd, his yellow eyes darting from person to person. “What are you looking at?” he yelled.

  Alice Smith stood out in the crowd, her tall, well-kept black trenchcoated frame in stark contrast with the sloppy, sake-drenched surroundings. His paranoia had proven real — there’d been a tail after all.

  “As if associating with Marie wasn’t enough, now you’re keeping company with the Yakuza,” she said. “How low can you get, Bastien?”

  He stood straight, his eyes locked with his former Martian compatriot. Despite him ignoring her communication ping during his approach into Nippon One aboard the Kitsune, she’d managed to find him. So much for Viktor the monster moving on with his new life.

  CHAPTER 2: CRONE

  Frank fiddled with his red coat’s Nehru-collar, all the while eyeing white, wooden double doors just ahead. They were beautiful — made from actual wood, not some faux-synthetic material. His steel grey eyes darted from left to right soaking in the spacious, brightly lit conference room. Its white walls and traditional paintings that depicted historical clashes like the Battle of Shigino and the Battle of Kizugawa from Japan’s Edo era felt airy. Not at all like the sterile, suffocating, austere confinement of Port Sydney. The staff of ten waitresses serving refreshments wore effortless smiles — very different than those forced ones up on the Red Planet.

  “General,” said the Martian Fi
nance Minister to his right, “will General Lieutenant Alice Smith be joining us?” He eyed an empty leather chair to Frank’s left.

  “No.” Frank rested his sweaty palms on the white marble conference desk. “She’s taking care of some business.”

  The minister nodded, concern drooping his eyes. It was the same look worn by the remaining Martian team. When Frank took note of it he commanded, “Let me do the talking. Speak only when I ask you to.”

  They nodded. Frank was the highest-ranking human at Port Sydney, not just in the military but throughout that world. When he gave a command, Sydneysiders listened.

  Frank took a sip of water, his eyes still trained on the double doors. The Nipponese congregation was late by almost an hour. It was unlike them. The Emperor was known for his punctuality. Perhaps this was another way of indicating displeasure with the destruction of New Paris? Nippon One had already slashed its orders for Martian deuterium and several other imports since the fiery conclusion of Operation Liberate New Paris. And heightened safety checks at the Nipponese spaceport of incoming Port Sydney trade cargo haulers had slowed trade traffic by twenty percent. It was all a show of dissatisfaction with New Paris’ ruin. Tensions were simmering toward a boil.

  The actions were understandable. It wasn’t every day that one of the last remaining human enclaves was annihilated by another, after all. The Nipponese were worried about being next. Although given their strong defense systems — systems more advanced than the Martian attack capabilities, some argued — would Port Sydney really pose a threat to Nippon One? Then there was the population advantage — the Sydneysiders totaled ninety nine thousand, a mere five percent of the Nipponese. How would that delta bode for the Martians? Frank certainly didn’t want to find out. He took another sip, this one longer than the last. His throat was coarse like sandpaper.

  The goals were clear for this meeting. First, reduce diplomatic and trade tensions with the Nipponese. And second, ensure his own lie to the High Council about Marie’s death during New Paris’ destruction was accepted by Emperor Akiyama. Frank’s memory of delivering this fabrication in the Port Sydney briefing room’s suffocating heat was seared in his mind. The artificial intelligence believed him — for now. He had become so good at deceit that even sentient machines were incapable of telling otherwise, despite strong lie detection capabilities.

  A lot was riding on the second goal. Marie was a defrocked demagogue, sure, but her very existence threatened war. If the High Council learned she was alive, they’d demand her handover. They wouldn’t allow her, a criminal because she’d harbored the fugitive Bastien and shot down a Martian spacecraft, to be protected by the Nipponese. Such an act would break the Trilateral Treaty, the agreement hard coded within their construct. Any treaty violation warranted a rebuttal.

  Frank recited Article Eleven to himself as he waited. “Each colony is obligated to extradite an individual accused of committing a crime in another colony, or an individual convicted of a crime in that other jurisdiction.” He licked his lips. “Any harboring of such individual is an act of defiance towards peace amongst the colonies.”

  Given the emperor’s affection for Marie, he’d rebuff the High Council’s demands for her deportation. With trade tensions already in play, physical conflict was the next likelihood. War didn’t have to be the response, of course, but the High Council seemed to lean towards extremes as witnessed by the invasion of New Paris — a byproduct of their self-modification over the last two years perhaps, or more likely, a remnant of their human creators’ genetic penchant for conflict inadvertently coded into the artificial intelligence. Either way, it would mean certain doom for mankind. So Frank’s lie had to remain in place — Marie’s death needed to be confirmed as fact today.

  A confirmation by Akiyama would not only mitigate the risk of war between the two colonies, it would also reduce Frank’s stress about lying to his artificial overlords. Yes, this second objective was most important, indeed. Surely, Akiyama had to corroborate the lie — why would he want to make known her refuge within Nippon One? It was his city and he was no fool, after all. He had to know the ramifications of breaking treaties. New Paris’ ruins were a recent testament to treaty noncompliance.

  Frank took a slow breath to calm himself. The calm did not come because of yet another concern speeding his heart — Marie could broadcast her presence even after Akiyama and Frank aligned on her death as a fact. This was the worst case scenario Alice had pointed out some time back. The High Council would demand Marie’s release if they learned she’d survived, even more so once they’d understand their own commanding military officer and their Nipponese counterpart had communed around a lie. War would rage, certainly. That goddamn treaty was irrefutable, after all.

  Marie couldn’t just remain hidden, she had to die. Alice’s covert mission to find someone local to kill Marie added further complexity to an already stressful situation. Even the public act of a Martian killing a leader who was already supposed to be dead would trigger the worse. A stealthy assassination was the only solution. Frank’s lips pressed together hard and he wiped his sweaty palms across his pants. He whispered, “Get a grip. Get a—”

  “All rise for His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Akiyama Honda,” a female voice blared from a speaker built into the ceiling.

  Frank and his team stood as the serving staff scuttled over to stand alert against the right-hand wall. The white double doors swiveled open and a line of soldiers marched in, all dressed in crisp, navy blue uniforms — tight, button-down shirts, slim trousers, and freshly polished shoes. They wore fitted caps, each imprinted with the emblem of Nippon One, a red sun within a white rectangle. Tall with Howa semi-automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, these elite men could go toe to toe with the best Martian soldiers. Frank considered his own security men and women standing at attention directly behind him and his ministers. Their Shift X rifles slung over their shoulders had a slight edge over the Nipponese counterparts, mainly due to lightweight design. Frank exhaled a breath of relief.

  The emperor walked in with two of his sons: Etsuji, eldest and heir to the throne, and Reo, the youngest and Chief of the Nipponese Police. The trio was dressed for business in high-end black suits lined with gold buttons. Reo’s baby face and short stature made him appear more like a pre-pubescent trying on his father’s clothing. His brother, on the other hand, was towering and handsome like the emperor — the image of a worthy successor. The three Japanese men stood by their designated seats, with Akiyama in the middle and directly across from Frank.

  Another line of men, Nipponese negotiators and finance managers, walked in last with heads down and took their designated seats on either side of the royal family. It was a well-choreographed dance, one most likely rehearsed multiple times. Frank recalled his last visit to this city-state a year ago for the annual meeting with the Nipponese royal family — the same performance had played even then. He waited for what came next.

  “Kimigayo wa

  Chiyo ni yachiyo ni

  Sazare-ishi no

  Iwao to narite

  Koke no musu made.”

  The Japanese national anthem, short but boastful, blared through the room’s speaker. Frank understood it perfectly after his three years of foreign language courses in elementary school. He mulled over the words. May Japan’s reign continue for a thousand, eight thousand generations, until the pebbles grow into boulders lush with moss. The anthem, with its nationalist undertones, was a vestige of old-world order. The High Council or anything remotely close hadn’t been contemplated in those days. If they had, the timespan of eight thousand generations might have been reconsidered. The growing conflict over New Paris needed fixing. Otherwise, Akiyama’s would be the last generation.

  It was time for the Martians to display their veneration for Port Sydney. “For the High Council,” Frank announced, his voice echoed by his team. Short and to the point. They took a deep bow that was mirrored by their Japanese hosts, and then all took their s
eats.

  “I preferred the old Australian anthem over this new… thing,” Akiyama boomed. “It was less sinister.”

  Frank didn’t respond and kept a straight face. Was the room warmer now? It was as if the Emperor was the burning sun, and him, Mercury.

  “We all know why we’re here,” Akiyama said with measured poise, “so let’s go straight into the discussion. No formalities.”

  “Sure,” Frank responded. No formalities? What was the entire entrance with all its pomp and procession about then? “I do want to say thank you to his Highness for allowing this meeting to take pl—”

  “I said no formalities, General,” Akiyama cut in.

  So the meeting was going to be that tense. Frank tugged at his collar as if to fill in the awkward silence. The chessboard, a fixture of his mind, materialized between Akiyama and him. Kings, queens and pawns stood tall, as did rooks, bishops and knights.

  Frank finally spoke and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Alright, your highness. I presume you want our reason for what happened at New Paris.” His eyes were locked with his counterpart’s.

  “What happened at New Paris was an invasion,” Akiyama said, his Japanese accent nonexistent because of his Port Sydney schooling. “It can be called only that.” His was a tone that was part accusatory and part educational.

  The chess pieces were moving. Frank nodded and countered, “It can only be considered an invasion if one doesn’t understand why we Martians took the action.” He inhaled slowly to calm his nerves. Damn those sweaty palms. “Marie Dubois attacked one of our envoys who was hunting one of our fugitives — an outlaw who, by the way, Marie was protecting. Both actions are an affront to the Trilateral Treaty, Articles Eleven and Two, respectively. We were well within our rights to retaliate. We felt threatened.”

  Akiyama scoffed. “Threatened? The Parisians couldn’t even reach you.”