Liar's Promise

By MIKE MARTIN

The year is 2037, the planet edges toward chaos. Extreme weather, drought, food scarcity, the accelerating pace of climate change, and diminishing resources take its toll. A young Japanese pacifist engineering genius Shinnosuke Kato realizes a prosperous future for his nation - to provide fresh water, and help feed a starving world, but he also prepares for the darkness of a boyhood prophecy. A rising China must crush Japan's drive for a global gold-backed currency to replace the falling American dollar. An attack on the Japanese imperial motorcade invokes an ancient directive, ignites a civil war as the head of the disgraced imperial guard seals off Tokyo, and plunges into ceaseless reprisal. Betrayed, and holdout in the central mountains of Japan, with the help of a DNA computer, Shinnosuke Kato is forced to lead a renegade army, navy, and suicide cult, to face the full force of a Chinese invasion.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MIKE MARTIN
• Release date: Sep 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215167472

Book preview

Prologue

OGASAWARA ISLAND, JAPAN, 4 MARCH 2:29 a.m. 2067 In haste, I Gen Iwai, took my oath, slid up the armband and listened to the calls come more frequent and desperate. I volunteered. That too is a lie. There are no more volunteers. The son of a surgeon, I claimed to be a medic, and soon I am to go forward.

This is my sentence.

The blasts are coming deeper and closer now but I'm not afraid because my brother sent me here, for a reason I don't understand.

Once he was a magnificent brother. Not a brother of the same father but a friend who made me better, but that was before he chose to be alone, and unknowable. He told me of his childhood, and the promise of a future.

I listened.

I wasn't with him at first but followed to this end. His dreams had become mine. We lived those dreams, until something pulled him back. I don't believe he went there willingly, but I’ll never know, it's too late to know.

At first there was more truth than lies - more hope than ruin. I guess most things are from innocent beginnings. None of us are innocent now, but we had to go on, and to go on, we had to lie and deceive further.

Shinnosuke tried to save me. I cannot be saved. I'm one of them, but I never wished for this, and I want to believe, neither did my brother.

---

Gen Iwai

1

WEIHAI, CHINA 2037 The driver swerved, wind whipped waves slashed the windshield. Out over the Bohai Sea the sun stretched its arc. Colonel Bo Chang’s black van sliced through patches of thinning fog along a boyhood seacoast road. Racing the pale morning light, he gazed out at the silted yellow water and over to a faded brown envelope on the seat next to him.

Chang thought of putting a flame to it, he accepted family tradition but never myth.

He pulled a boar bristle brush from a leather case, inspected it, and plucked the bent bristles, set them in a trash container at his foot, and dusted his uniform.

Chang confirmed the road safety reports and focused on the task at hand. It could occupy no more than fifty-minutes, he ordered the driver to turn into an abandoned shipyard.

The industrial past grew large as they approached. Dock cranes watched over, like a mother waiting for a baby to wake, an unfinished iron ore ship large as a relocation housing project, lay in dripping rust. Greed - made into another breeding place—for the delinquent, and destitute.

His van slowed alongside a dock behind a medical bus. Staff in white uniforms waited with armed coastguard sailors.

Colonel Chang ignored them, lit a cigarette, and returned to inspect the economic death sprawled to his front. Many of his relations once labored at this place. New schools sharpened pupils, stores overflowing with hope. Now a city scattered and purposeless, idled youth, loyalty wasted on gangs. He’d listened to citizen’s pleas and read the official lies.

Chang was reminded of the wall scribbling, the colors and foul markings. His home kept few pleasant memories. Street thugs had once tried to block the path of his younger brother and sister. He refused to yield and fought them like a beast. His left eye twitched as the thoughts came to him, he traced a face scar with his finger. Youth summoned the fool. Days not worth further contemplation.

Chang flicked his burning cigarette to a puddle and stepped out.

Prisoners, arms and legs bound in plastic strapping waited on their knees.

What do we have? Chang said. A fresh official came forward, a document in his hand. A weasel given a sword.

Japanese violators of our territory, spies, he said. Chang examined the violator’s faces and clothing. Their eyes told him different.

Spy equipment, weapons, devices let me see them, Chang said and held out an open palm.

The official shifted his feet and met his gaze. I had them sent to Beijing for thorough examination. Included in my report.

Chang shook his head. Spies no, Japanese fishermen gone astray in a storm - let them go. I have many relatives that rely on the sea. Scripted and instant, the official gave his reply.

Updated government policy requires stern measures to set an example. Chang noted the man. A beggar of higher things.

Chang glanced at his watch. A mere colonel had spent his influence unwisely, throwing dung to the wind. Alright, but I’ll report you personally administered the injections. An aspiring official should fully appreciate his power. The official’s face went white as poisoned soil.

Chang turned for his van. We execute fishermen while gangs rampage. A new China is sorely in need, Chang thought, and pulled the door to a slam.

Crumbling apartment complexes and shattered stores flashed by as he approached his neighborhood. China’s hunger for iron ore had once brought jobs, the bright times faded further into ruin as he passed parks gone to weed and tumbling trash.

He came to his family home. The roof tile cracks had progressed, but the house stood only a bit sturdier than the homes that remained.

Children he did not know ran about a tired garden. Laundry and hanging turnips were the first to greet him.

A cousin stood on the porch. His hair an untamed thornbush, he slowly made his way down the bending steps. Cousin, it’s been years, Chang said. The man had aged greatly, but his optimist’s eyes bright. Colonel Chang extended a hand and touched his shoulder. Thank you for caring for Grandmother. Mother doesn't get home often.

She can’t do much anymore but she’s in the kitchen. I take care of the garden and... Chang’s home had no scarcity of hardship.

Tell me, Chang said.

They keep coming and promising help. Jobs, protection if we pay, his cousin said. I said no, you told me, they took half the chickens. They had knives. I wish I could fight them.

A reason I’m here. Chang motioned for his aide. His cousin smiled as Chang’s nephew came forward smartly dressed in a uniform. His aide had packs, several rifles, handguns, and crates of ammunition stacked next to the van. Chang checked the time. Hurry, I will need you to take an oath. You will be the first security and safety restoration officer of this neighborhood. An instructor will arrive later today and will remain until he sees that you and three others are fit to serve. The weapons and supplies are registered to me. You will obey every regulation and command, Chang said. Chang witnessed dignity and life return to a faltering spirit. His cousin stood straight.

You have given a second chance. I won’t be your disgrace. He pointed to a character - luck painted on the house wall. Sir, you have returned blessing to our family.

Chang sighed. His mother was wise to leave.

Luck was never adequate.

Chang hurried to his van. He had another appointment to keep. Little reward came from return to the orphaned city, but he’d made a promise to his mother. A woman steeped in superstition and rotting tradition. He considered her well past her useful age, but she carried authority in his lineage, and even for a first son her displeasure would be sudden and ruinous.

Colonel Bo Chang hadn't offered respects to his ancestors in nearly ten years. He preferred not to mingle with the dead. Here. Stop, here. The driver slammed the brakes, gravel grinding under the tires. The van skidded to a stop.

His aide darted out and pulled the door open. This pleased him. Obedience and speed were qualities a Chinese soldier cultivated in every action, every thought.

Spirits rose in the heat from the headstones. His great grandfather told him such in his withering years. The nonsense of ghosts and gods - of the immortal was just that, the providence of fools, and the weak. Nothing was immortal—nothing but the past lived unchanged.

Colonel Bo Chang took out a letter to be opened on the closing of a hundred years, on this day. He harbored no belief in the great cycle, but such could be useful to sway inferior minds.

His great grandfather's father had lived as an officer in that time under the murderous Japanese. They maimed his body but failed to slave his will. He had lived to old age, but his wife died young in unforgiving shame. His orders, asleep for a century burned clear in his mind.

His mail chimed, his younger brother and sister had advanced in their quest to better China and would assist him.

Chang looked into the late fall sky. White swans beat their powerful wings leaving their homeland behind for winter. China welcomed winter and would thrive again under the scorch of the summer sun.

Fate would call upon the islands of Japan in a more suitable way. To be consumed and shattered - a fragile clay vessel, Japan would harm them never again.

Chang turned. A noise thumped loud from a car music system. Three youths, pigs in bright colored rags gathered. A glitter of stone jewelry dangled from their faces. A defect propped against a gravestone. He puffed a hand rolled cigarette, taking long breaths. There were perhaps ghosts, ones that followed him.

His aide watched close, hand resting on his sidearm, he motioned him to stand down.

Chang turned and marched for the three. He stopped, eyed them, and gathered the few words to address animals.

This is a graveyard, not a place to loiter. Leave or be jailed. Chang paused and steadied his thoughts - he had come for restoration. Tell me your names, and I will help find jobs, I know the mayor of this town. He looked at them. The words had no effect. Chang pointed to his ID and turned. The best he had to offer.

You, leave, the lump leaning against the grave, said. Chang came to a halt and stiffened. This graveyard will soon be your home.

Chang did nothing, said nothing, but waited, back toward them. Life brought the fullness of opportunity, decision, often petty. Petty it would be not. His aide stepped closer, gun out. He waved him down.

Shambling footsteps brought heavy breathing and a rancid smell close - much too close. A stump finger prodded his shoulder, the crest of his pressed uniform, mocking laughter followed.

Filth had no path with dignity. Chang turned and saw the flash of a drawn blade. He moved with youthful speed and freed the weapon and guided the man to the ground, fighting the desire to harm him. Leave, I came to honor my family not for confrontation.

The two others pulled knives from sagging belts. The man on the ground picked up the knife, stood, and stepped forward, the man’s disfigured grin turned to a smirk, and he lunged.

Enough.

An error only a half-wit would commit. Chang seized his bloated hand and snapped his wrist like a hollow branch. With a shove he discarded the mass of flesh. Gunshots cracked behind. The two dropped like heaps of wet garbage.

He strode up to them, pushed the bodies over with his heel - perfect shots to the head. There was hope for a decisive generation. Chang extended his hand. His nephew surrendered the weapon. He returned to the mess and stood over the twisting mound that dared not rise. From the dirt the man's eyes flickered defiant.

I’ll put the last of the pigs, to the slaughter.

Chang set his left hand on a gravestone, it was warm. He brought the black steel into aim, worked the trigger, and punched holes in the fattened frame. The ground wetted with blood. The gun-blast-echo’s settled in his head.

The dead had been awakened.

2

SADO ISLAND, JAPAN Shinnosuke closed his mouth and felt his jaw go tight just before his wristband storm alert buzzed. The barometer had gone negative and the air charge density spiking. Like a creature called to extinction he scratched a tingle in his scalp. He strapped on his helmet, and goggles and listened to the wind pick up and stared at the kitchen broadcast speaker but could barely hear the flash storm warning. The breaking sirens told him they were going to get hit. The rain would wet the paths for the lightening. His sister Ai wasn't home from school, and the roads would be closed. What if she didn't make it to a shelter?

Shinnosuke unbolted the front door - it snapped open and flapped back on its hinges. The wind whipped over his face and dug under his mask. He ran toward school. The fever that had kept him home still burned.

A wind gust struck his back and smashed him to the ground. He examined his blood-skinned hands, got to his feet, and continued. The road pavement sparked as flashes in the low clouds increased. A crack and sizzle directly above caused him to crouch. A tree caught fire but was drowned under a sudden sky waterfall.

He spotted Ai, her schoolbag guarding her face - she ran from pole to pole. Shinnosuke hurried, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward the house. The sirens kept sounding but were overcome by the wind. The rain poured on his helmet and something struck his head. A branch flew by. He turned - a tree clawed down the street coming for them. He pulled Ai to the side. The tree trunk battered a fire hydrant. A waterspout curved into the wind stream and pelted them.

They came to their house and stopped. It swayed on its frame as the windows broke apart.

They hurried to a dirt mound at the back and Shinnosuke pulled open the heavy door. They climbed in and, he thought of his father’s last summer digging the shelter. He lit a candle, wrapped a blanket around his sister’s shoulders and found a bottle of water and offered it to her.

The storm returned to the sea, where it had come.

Mother and Shinnosuke swept the window glass into boxes. Uncle would be over soon. Perhaps the storm brought father’s boat back, Shinnosuke thought. Shinnosuke climbed the sagging porch, mother continued to gather the glass.

There, a flash of blue, Shinnosuke said, and zoomed his binoculars.

Stop it, Mother said. Shinnosuke panned the sea. It’s hopeless, give it up. Mother put her hand on his shoulder. He brushed it off.

"It’s hopeless to give up. Shipwrecked – an ordinary man, days, a fisherman, a week, a master of the sea, forever," Shinnosuke said, and turned, mother had left to tend the store.

Shinnosuke slid and ran down the trail in front of the house to the sea, uncovered a raft from under a green fishing net, and dragged it into the shore break. The warming sea bit at his feet. He unfolded the sail grandmother had sewn and stuck it firmly in the gray drainpipe-piece from Uncle's shed. The raft was seaworthy, he had double-taped the plastic bottles snuggly together. He extended a compass and propped his binoculars to his eyes and swept the view over the horizon, as his father had. He raised two fingers into the stirring wind and sighted a course through the compass. The blue-striped Sunfish couldn't have just vanished.

The raft dipped and bobbed as he climbed atop and clung to its broomstick mast. He pushed off. The wind invited him onto the green glass sea. Shinnosuke looked into the water, his heart pulsed, hands waited like sinkers, eager to pull the foolhardy down, Uncle told him. He swashed the oar rudder, the sail fluttered, and filled as it found the breeze. The shore pulled away, he looked back at his house perched on the hill. The living room lights came on. His sister was home from the store. Shinnosuke levered the rudder into the current, the raft lifted and turned. The plywood keel shuddered and broke. The raft spun and churned toward the open sea. The hands from the green-deep searched for him. He yanked the mast, but it kept turning. He grabbed a rope tied around the craft and waved the sail. A burst of whitewater foam tossed the raft over. He plunged into the water. His body tensed as the salt chill soaked his clothes and stung his skin. He squeezed his orange life jacket and looked up at the sky. The sea drew him, out to where he wished to be.

The sun had made the sea red-yellow mirrors. Shinnosuke reached into the water and touched his numbing legs. He shouted, seagulls trailed a fishing boat rumble. The bubbling neared and a thump hit his shoulder. Father, he screamed.

No. You'll be all right. A ring splashed into the water. Hold on to the ring, the voice said. The throaty engine gurgled.

Uncle?

Your mother would have my skin if you sailed away on that raft. Uncle tugged him into the boat and tucked a blanket around his shoulders. Move your arms and legs. Shinnosuke wiggled like a bug. Uncle sighed and raised his hand and slapped the air. I'll take you home. Warm up and let's keep this a secret. You promised not to sail that thing without me, Uncle said, and sent the raft out. You little devil, you scared me. Shinnosuke watched the sea pull the raft away.

The light truck bounced like a spring as Uncle Tanaka hurried him home. Shinnosuke kept a steady gaze at the sky, smoke-gray clouds moved toward land.

Across the harbor, whitewater sloshed. Dying and thrashing, the sea that refused his father’s return.

---

Home from school, he set a paper pyramid he made on the table and looked out the living room window. The village fishing port lay to the front.

Mother snatched laundry from a rusting wire Father had promised to replace. These clothes will be thrown to the waves, she said. Face angry.

Shinnosuke recalled a story a Shinto priest told him and looked into to the sky above the sea and saw the yellow-orange lightning eyes of Raijin, as the God of storms began to call. Three fingered hands gripped iron hammers. Raijin swung and beat the taiko drums of the heavens.

An image of a giant coast shutter formed in his mind. It would close on command to keep the devil away. He pictured machines riding the swells, harvesting power. The sky, wind, rain, and waves could be tamed. He selected a pencil from a case and sketched the machines into a blue notebook. The great pyramid could not be destroyed. He lifted it to the storm.

A sliver of sun broke the clouds. The sea sprinkled with fishing boats sparkled. Shinnosuke searched the distance for his father’s boat. Father told him where the horizon ended, a place where the sky fell into the sea.

---

Like Mother told him Sado was an island of exile, Shinnosuke thought. The silver minivan’s engine groaned as they climbed the narrow road, past tired farm shacks, wood returning to soil. His sister, and cousins chimed a song into annoyance. Tires spun red dust as they neared Uncle Tanaka’s house.

The days of summer were freed from time. They splashed in the stream and ventured into Grandmother's sandy watermelon patch. The voices of summer carried into the lonely seasons ahead. Shinnosuke hungered for the tales of Uncle Tanaka’s adventures. Fisherman, sailor, a gold miner Uncle Tanaka was everything.

Pungent mosquito coil smoke swirled in the warm breeze outside the screened doorway. The wooden shoji sliding doors lay open, their yellow-white paper sagged in the sticky air. Shinnosuke burst in and raced to explore the house.

Where’s uncle?

Scraping and digging came from under the kitchen. Aunt Tanaka’s face flushed. Your uncle, yes your uncle. She pointed to a square door in the middle of the kitchen floor. That was once a fine root cellar. She lifted the ring and pulled. With a second tug and a hollow thump, it gave. She fell backward. Shinnosuke tried not to laugh. Aunt Tanaka knelt, looking down. They’re here! You told me you would be up from your hole.

Sorry, I think I found something big.

Fine, come up from the ground and say hello to the kids as you promised.

Did Uncle find more gold? Shinnosuke said.

More dirt, that's all.

Can we go down, and see?

Oh, no! It's much too dangerous.

Please, a little way, please?

It’s okay. A muffled gruff voice vibrated the floor. Send them in. I want to show them some real gold.

Aunt Tanaka nodded.

Who wants to go?

Not me! It stinks, his four-year old cousin said.

Shinnosuke waited. I’ll go. I’m eight and not afraid.

He climbed down the wooden ladder, came to the last rung, and stopped. The hole was deeper from below.

Are you sure this is all right? Aunt Tanaka said. She arched over.

Oh, come on, don't be so old. Let the kids have some fun. A dirt-speckled face under an orange headlamp appeared. Here we go. Uncle stretched his arms and caught him. I won’t take you all the way, but I want to show you my treasure.

Lights in yellow plastic cases marked the tunnel. Hefty planks held back the ceiling. Rope and bent nail clumps locked the boards together.

Uncle Tanaka lifted a finger to some blue markings on a thick beam that guarded the entrance. I salvaged this one from a Korean boat wrecked on the coast. Those planks are salt-seasoned hard, seaworthy, even down here. They came to a rock outcropping. Uncle Tanaka dusted it with a paintbrush from his belt.

Shinnosuke examined the rock. Uncle smoothed his fingers over the yellow specks.

There my boy, gold. Look at the size of those pieces, he said with a crescent grin. Let’s go. Your aunt is probably steam-kettle-angry. Besides, time for some watermelon and a swim in the stream.

Uncle Tanaka guided him up the ladder, with a shove Shinnosuke popped out into the kitchen.

Aunt Tanaka rolled a strip of carpet over the brown tiled floor. I’m sure the children would be happy to see the other mine.

I was going to show them. Don’t foil my fun. Uncle Tanaka squinted. His plum round cheeks rose to his glasses. Shinnosuke ran and called sister and cousin. They followed Uncle around the white stilt house frame, through a narrow path sliced between mounds of dirt and rock, tin buckets strewn about. Rope coiled on driftwood branches hung on a shack wall next to the garden. Uncle Tanaka pulled the door open. The hinges screeched and he lifted a plastic bottle from his tool belt. That door needs a little engine oil - a good squirt. He stopped and worked the hinges. There.

A patter of paw prints crossed the shack floor. This is where the greatest treasure is. His round belly bounced, and tool belt rattled. Uncle Tanaka slapped a finger to his lips in a salute of silence and oath of secrecy. Which of the mighty beasts has returned from the hunt.

What?

Come. Uncle Tanaka scampered down.

The dirt caked walls steepened. Shinnosuke waded into the dark, down the log steps pegged and roped to the earth. Uncle Tanaka pulled a flashlight and examined the tunnel walls. There’s one.

A pair of simmering emerald-green eyes returned a disapproving stare. From a carpeted dirt carved shelf, a striped tail, hung over the side.

Uncle Tanaka called out and the cats answered. I can speak cat. Give it a try.

Their voices rose into a cat song melody. Aunt Tanaka appeared behind. We have more strays than gold.

Shinnosuke stepped in front. Can I go in and see them?

Sure, they come and go, but there are always a few, more in the winter when the cold sets. Don't be long, there’s more fun in the dark.

Shinnosuke scanned the walls. His shoulders grew heavy as they examined him. Hidden from the heat, he was safe from the outside in the cat mine.

Uncle Tanaka waved wildly. His miner’s light still fixed to his forehead, Uncle led the way across the road to a trail down an embankment. They followed, flashlight beams everywhere except on the path in front. The sound of bubbling grew.

There. In a couple of days, they'll be gone. Switch off those lights - follow.

Jagged trails of fuzzy light nudged about, below the green and silver drape of the willows. From a soft stream crackle, water misted. Through the moisture tinge fireflies throbbed their glow.

---

We can’t miss the taiko drum festival, Mother said. Ahead of mother, Shinnosuke and sister climbed into the van.

The drumbeats pounded louder as they neared. Chicken and squid sizzled on charcoal grills and sweetened the air. They hurried out. He stopped at a stage close to a line of drummers. The rolling beats struck the air. Sister let his hand go. He pictured the glow of the angered eyes of Raijin on him. The drummers’ arms blurred in motion. Energy raced through his body as the rhythm thundered.

It played long into the twisting drive home. Ai fell into a sweaty sleep. Mother turned onto the coast road. The wind carried in a white fog, it clung low, the black pavement disappeared. She touched the car radio buttons. Her fingers coaxed a song from the static of a distant station.

A piercing horn jolted. Ai screamed. Truck lights filled the windshield like a hundred camera flashes.

---

The horn, the pounding drums, sister’s scream was all that remained of that night.

The lights above hurt his eyes as tried to focus. Shinnosuke grabbed the bed rail but could not move. He looked to sides of the elevated hospital bed, busy beeping monitors drew lines on screens. The room smelled like medicine.

Oda sensei was near, careful of the tubes attached to his arms, he reached over and held his hand. Shinnosuke turned his head and searched for his mother, instead he found Uncle standing back, face sullen. He knew Mother and sister were gone.

He pulled his hand back and turned as scenes in his head began, lights flashed, and drums grew loud.

The pounding hammers and screams of Raijin would chase him through his dreams and meet the morning.

---

Oda sensei arrived at their house. Overly polite, he came for something important, Shinnosuke thought. The floorboards squeaked as Grandmother invited him to the kitchen table. Father had promised mother to replace them.

Grandmother used every bit of strength and lifted Shinnosuke from his wheelchair onto a chair at the dining room table. Oda sensei waited and took a sip of tea and thanked grandmother.

I would like to discuss Shinnosuke’s future.

This is our future, Grandmother said and pointed to the wheelchair.

No. Oda sensei stood and came around. The boy has extraordinary gifts, in mathematics, in science, he can almost predict an outcome. He needs much more than I - this island can provide.

What are you suggesting. An old woman and a crippled son of a fisherman move and start a new life? More dreams to the poor. Grandmother pulled her graying hair back and sat rigid in her seat. Do you suggest I take my petty retirement and follow an illusion that just might break both our hearts again.

I've made some inquires, there are scholarships, Oda sensei said.

We have always paid what is due from our meager earnings and will continue to do so.

Oda sensei sighed. Sponsorship is a reward not an insult.

Grandmother gestured toward him. He owes, will owe nothing to anyone.

It is the only way fair to Shinnosuke. There is abundant opportunity for someone of his intellectual capacity and natural curiosity. But not here, Oda sensei said.

Shinnosuke examined them, they were both sincere. He felt a jolt of shame, he had enjoyed the contest for his future. I want to go grandmother, become a great engineer and help people.

She paused and looked over to him. My dear engineer. The wife of a fisherman, I’ve been a greater fool before.

Grandmother was simple and backward but always clear.

She nodded twice.

---

Shinnosuke waited for grandmother at the top of the ramp. The car-ferry horn bellowed. Two crewmen stood ready at the ship's ropes. Shinnosuke spotted Uncle Tanaka running toward the ship.

Uncle Tanaka rushed by a frowning man and up the narrow boarding ramp and handed grandmother an envelope. She pushed it away. Calls for departure brought tense looks.

Here, take it. It’s for the boy. He pressed the envelope toward her.

I will, but only if you leave and let these gentlemen go about their business. Oh, and thank you. Grandmother wiped her eyes.

The engine noise rose, the ship separated from the dock, pushed off, and turned into the Sea of Japan. From the aft deck he watched his home become a speck and vanish. Shinnosuke went to the ship’s front as far as he could.

The ship crashed through the waves for Honshu.

3

BANK OF JAPAN, TOKYO Sora Nakashima made sure his ID was visible. He went into a brisk pace weaving through the crowd on the sidewalk. Tokyo traffic was heavy with the usual trucks and transport in front of the Bank of Japan. Curiosity pushed him, it always did. Four windowless vans passed and came to the gate. The vans caught his attention - identical white, no markings of any kind.

His stomach tightened. The watch guards leave the building. Sora Nakashima extended his ID, walked toward the gate, and through. He wouldn't get ten unauthorized steps in a sensitive building in China without a beating or a bullet. Japanese security wasn't just lax, it was puppet theater. He enjoyed slipping by with a serious face. The Japanese pretended to be serious. He was.

The drivers nodded to the guards and presented a set of documents. The lead guard inspected and stamped them. The vans disappeared into a tunnel. He had been here before and knew the tunnel stopped one floor down at a rectangular parking area. He pictured the OFF-LIMITS sign painted in red across the concrete. Keeping to the side, he slipped around the corner and peered into the semi-darkness, two guards snapped up safety cones. Two others stood, fingers together, motioning the vans back. He straightened his back and strode closer for the surprise security inspection.

A line of carts, each accompanied by an armed guard, formed outside the rectangle. The guards moved behind the vans. Rope handles stiffened as the guards stacked six crates on a cart. Four hands plowed the cart into the elevator. A jolt echoed down the elevator shaft as the weight registered in the cables.

Sora made note of everything. His mind snapped pictures. In two hours, he would report to Beijing. The Japanese were getting close. The new central bank governor was called the wolf that tended the policies of sheep. Sora enjoyed the cartoon jokes in the news.

Sora enjoyed the truth.

The talk, idea, had been repeated. Yet another injective shock would pry consumers into full service – followed by a new currency to pad the fall of a reckless insolvent government. Engineered theft, economic poison, defraud – it was all of that, in some form or another. Sora Nakashima didn’t like vague language.

It was more monetary opium.

The Japanese summarized it once again as, appropriate measures.

CENTRAL TOKYO

The second trip from Narita airport would take three hours. Rei Sano wasn’t in a rush - his cargo wasn’t perishable. Four white vans lurched through peak traffic. The suspension was soggy. The long box took an extra dip every time he pedaled the brakes.

Driving - more like seasickness.

Rei Sano checked the cap on the slender blue coffee thermos, a numbing ceremony to mark off the routine. He took a slug of coffee. It burned, and boiled some germs going down, he liked that. The security guy next to him did the same - their way of communicating. They never talked, weren't allowed to. A stupid rule. They had to nod according to protocol. More dumb rules.

Rei Sano doubted the security guy could do anything useful other than run if they were attacked. The guy did have a shiny metal hook-like weapon – something more fitting in the hands of a Shinto priest blessing a plot of city dirt. The security man lived two pay grades up the feed-chain. He glanced at him between sips, at the seat vegetable. Better they didn’t talk.

Rei's boss fussed and wormed over everything- a boss from upstairs. He checked the tire air pressure–twice, another rule. The guy floated down from some cloud, most of them did. But this guy was different, he carried an air pressure gauge in his coat pocket.

No wonder this country is so messed up.

His older brother was up somewhere in one of the proud buildings, some place he wouldn't get an invitation. Rei Sano tried not to reload that thought.

He and the other crews slogged the routine more than ever. The job didn't pay crap but every time he mentioned quitting, his wife spooned him the story about returning to live with her parents. Butt-aching seat boredom and soda pop wages won out over life with his in-laws in a Saitama suburb. Not by much. Things changed fast. It didn’t take a Nobel Prize to know where the suits were taking their inflation black hole and everyone sucking along with it.

He decided to go for it. Chances he would get reported were comfortably zero. Another mushy bounce and his neighbor went dreamtime. No broken rules, it wasn’t a phone call. He pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. His eyebrows narrowed, he read the numbers again. Thank you, mister - master MOF. Ministry of Failure.

The guardian next to him slipped further into his sleep-job.

Rei closed out his positions and enjoyed playing a part, killing the yen, almost dead, on domestic life support. The people upstairs probably ordered the digital presses to light speed.

He sold yen and bought gold. Not bad - 300,000 yen - a nice bonus. Visions of a new house on his in-law’s pencil land strip, another box-fab in a repetition landfill, full of voices griping over which way to stretch the laundry in the dust air vanished, now a Guam condo, face to the sea. Shooting real range guns and teaching scuba diving to college kids would be a life.

Rei never knew when the pickups would happen. Everything was secret, even the smallest meaningless details. But somebody knew. With each delivery, the next morning, the yen nudged a blip south on his pocket gambler's screen. The management crowd couldn't trade, they would be hunted. Rei Sano technically worked for the MOF. Not exactly, he was a contract slave. Even his brother couldn’t get him a better job. He’d done some stuff way back that he was still proud of.

That was the problem, and he was in no hurry to quit.

---

Rei wiped his forehead and stretched, hand on his lower back. What? He unfolded his wallet, eyeing a cold can of coffee sitting behind the glass of a dented vending machine. He stepped back for a kick but stopped. His knee still hurt from the last one.

Thieves, again. His voice usually slipped first. The 300-yen price was crossed out, now 350. He pushed his wallet into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. The sugared caffeine treat could wait. He opened another trade. He might have to invoke his truck driver’s creed, load up, and haul ass out of the big city. A one-way sewer pipe trip to Zimbabwe, stacks of toilet-money-paper waiting at the other end.

Rei's eyes kept taking longer and longer naps, the coffee was thinning. He reached into his shoulder slung cooler bag for the good stuff. He’d tried to stay off the little dark glass bottles loaded with ingredients a chemist could appreciate but another sleep-wreck would end his hand-to-mouth career. He grasped the cold wet bottle. Soon an express train would be racing his veins leaving the adrenaline far behind.

Rei needed a trip to the drug store to bulk resupply the human rocket fuel. Next-to-the-counter weaponized caffeine.

Rei's eyes were slammed open now, the kind of open that reminded him of unpleasant things. He was due at the family home for the New Year, his wife wouldn't go near the house of a first son deity, but he had a practical reason. He didn't care for his central banker older brother this time of season or any season, but he wanted what the money sage knew and that came only once a year. After the third salutes of Scotch and about the third time his brother shook off Rei’s slighted questions Rei understood he was ready to donate to a needy truck driver. Rei listened and pretended to sympathize through the whiny prelude. The part where his brother complained of job stress. Rei couldn't understand the stress of slicing up a yellow-fin tuna sized bonus, but the prime Scotch came through the door free and the gum-stretch smiling worth it. By the time his brother passed out and into the dreary New Year, Rei would have his financial plans. The year before, Rei woke up next to a scotch-shrimped carpet, his parents wiping and spraying in an antiseptic fury, reciting a chorus of praise honoring their chosen.

4

OLD TOKYO Shinnosuke looked up. The sky was crowded in glass and steel. A sprinkle of overdue morning sunlight fell upon a well-tended wooden apartment building, one that failed absorption into the city - their new home.

The better apartments were a lot closer, but this was the cheapest grandmother considered. Shinnosuke wasn't certain he could he fit in the bathtub, much less make a full turn in the kitchen, but grandmother assured him their room was fine. Grandmother could make a castle out of a closet. She thanked pigeons for giving up a park bench with a piece of bread.

Space and convenience wouldn't all have to be imaginary. Shinnosuke opened a notebook and gauged the paper between his fingers, took out an antique drafting pencil and sketched the tools he would have to build first to live in a confined space. He had looked through catalogs of equipment to assist the disabled, but they were costly and mostly ill suited.

Uncle Tanaka would help.

---

The speed of life accelerated in the Tokyo time machine.

The first day of school came in early and dependable noise. The subway door opened with a whoosh. Grandmother shoved the wheelchair over the doorway bump, into the thick of groomed humanity – a mass of dry-cleaned clothes, cologne and perfume, a rumbling underground Tokyo commuter line. Shinnosuke tightened his mask over his nose as competing fragrances confused his senses.

A perimeter of briefcases and designer bags encircled and cut off all escape. A few shoes took their stripes, but grandmother apologized for every strategic wheel adjustment and territory she conquered. He tightened up, the stations clicked by. Head down and fingers strumming the beads of an imaginary abacus he calculated speed and distance from the thumps in the tracks.

Tomorrow they would try the bus.

---

The first semester ended. This will end up more than our rent, Grandmother said. She paused and continued wrapping and setting trophies and awards in a box, a delivery truck would pick up in the morning. But we can hardly throw them away. Your uncle wants every one of them as much as I do.

Shinnosuke opened a news feed on his tablet. The semester project was progressing well, but the theme was dreadful. Drought induced famine caused by climate change. Solutions were on the cleaner side of problems, and the problems were outrunning the human race. The earth's water system was failing. Like wealth distribution, either - too much or too little, he thought.

He monitored the latest flash storm warnings and remembered the storms of Sado. He looked at a live satellite weather image. It was raining over the Arabian Sea while the Ethiopian people scavenged desolate farmland. Shinnosuke dreamed of returning the rain to the dry land.

---

A noise at the door startled him from sleep. Shinnosuke pulled back the bed curtain and activated the hoist. His vest straps tightened as the hoist dragged him from the floor mattress to his wheelchair. He looked over to Grandmother’s empty bed against the wall. The knocking continued, accompanied by calling police voices. Shinnosuke opened the door and checked his phone for messages and noted the time. Grandmother was never late, and he knew she wasn't coming home. The police officers pitied the country boy in a wheelchair and offered to send someone to wait with him but Shinnosuke refused.

The phone calls came in the same tone. His relatives made it clear – he was unlucky, born of a curse. Uncle Tanaka was different, he loved Tokyo and bad luck was the ideal excuse to visit. Shinnosuke found comfort in Uncle Tanaka’s gruff words. Your grandmother loved you, I’m coming, and you are going to go on without her, without any of us. I just might move to Tokyo and keep you company. Shinnosuke couldn't think of anything to say.

Shinnosuke waited, ignored the other phone calls, and read messages. Aunt Tanaka was in the hospital again. Uncle would arrive as soon as he could.

---

Hey Shinnosuke, you alright in there? It was before noon. Shinnosuke came to the door and opened it. You won’t believe it. Remember Oda sensei and his older sister? She flew me out, right to Haneda airport. We zipped along and passed over that old ferry boat and left the Honshu trains far behind. Uncle Tanaka paused, bent down, and looked at him, face close. That old woman sure didn't think highly of me but you are different my boy. Darn I’ll miss her scolding me for living. Let’s get a bite to eat and take her ashes home.

Uncle I don’t want to return to Tokyo.

Quit your nonsense. Here. He opened Grandmother’s insurance policy and read the numbers. I’m your legal guardian now, and there should be some money left for school.

It’s yours Uncle. Uncle Tanaka’s reply was short.

Thank you. Uncle went to Grandmother’s folded mattress and over to the dishes standing straight in the kitchen strainer. He read the meal plan taped to the refrigerator, picked up a medication package, one of the many organized in a paper box on the table, set it down, and bowed his head. Oh, I’m truly sorry Etsuko. You were right, Greedy Kenji. Uncle Tanaka faced Grandmother’s bed, took out a string of beads, and rubbed them together.

What are you doing? Shinnosuke said.

I’m apologizing to her spirit, and the inheritance is yours. You'll probably die before I do but in case you get lucky help me out when my body decides to prepare to graduate from this world.

Uncle Tanaka was half-serious or all-serious Shinnosuke couldn't tell but that was how Uncle Tanaka spent each day.

---

Shinnosuke held the silver urn of grandmother’s ashes on his lap as the plane bounded more thrilling than any roller coaster he could imagine. Next to him Uncle Tanaka yelled over the twin-engine noise and pointed to the sea. If we had a plane like this, we could have found your father. Shinnosuke listened and nodded as he watched the lady pilot behind sunglasses, speaking into a headset microphone zooming the plane home.

The dot on the sea grew steady.

Shinnosuke looked back toward Honshu. Tokyo had demanded and costed everything. Sado was always nothing but wanted nothing in return.

Shinnosuke thought of the bright colored hens and roosters he used to greet along the winding way to school and the trash-clutter shoreline that waited exploration after. The barefoot summer days had come and gone without warning.

The plane buzzed over his abandoned home and Uncle Tanaka pointed down and Shinnosuke turned toward the horizon and searched for the Sailfish.

---

Uncle supported his shoulder, Shinnosuke leaned over the boat side and watched Grandmother's ashes melt into The Sea of Japan off the coast of Sado island. A light wind carried flowers through a trickle of rain outward. Grandmother had joined the search for her son and his father.

---

They returned to the sleepless Tokyo trample. On schedule and un-welcomed, the principal visited. It was more about the awards on the school walls and in glass cases than care or sorrow, Shinnosuke thought.

Uncle flushed with embarrassment, cardboard packing boxes were stacked on the table, and chairs. He told him that gamblers and gold miners had no suitable words for people of letters. Uncle Tanaka had on cotton work gloves and a dust rag in hand. Uncle kept a comfortable distance from his life and was determined to move them to a better apartment near the school. There would be ample opportunity for gaming and nightlife, Uncle surely calculated.

The principal stepped between the boxes, his intrusive smile constant. The mess seemed to disappear in his presence. He invited them to school to meet someone. The lines on Uncle Tanaka's face wrinkled deeper but he agreed.

Shinnosuke watched bits and pieces of Tokyo flash by from the taxi, life was speeding too fast, and he missed the seacoast. The principal ushered them into a spacious nearly empty office.

A tall smiling man paraded in and greeted the principal and Uncle Tanaka with a deep formal bow. The man turned, bent and looked at Shinnosuke as if inspecting a museum exhibit.

It’s a pleasure, I’m Gen’s father. You two seem to be friends at school. His teeth gleamed, like a movie star.

Under a jealous spotlight Gen’s father lived for respect. Gen has lunch with me, and I help him with his homework.

I appreciate your kindness. Gen is less than an ideal student, you seem to understand him.

Shinnosuke observed intently. Gen informed him of the actors in his father’s drama. Gen knew a lot about other people. The principal kept the conversation moving. Gen’s father, Shun Iwai, a flamboyant, well-rumored-about surgeon, was a generous school contributor.

Shinnosuke studied the principal’s face. Gen told him every face had a story. The principal wore a smile set in wax - he was cast in wax. A match and maybe he would melt.

Allow me to be direct. Gen has great respect for Shinnosuke, and I would be more than pleased to have him live with us. In fact, I have a design for a comfortable living arrangement in the works. To demonstrate our gratitude, I would also like to offer a full scholarship in his grandmother’s name, completely in her honor. Yes, her name will be on all the official documents. Considering the tragic circumstances, I would like to be of help.

Gen popped in from the door. "Come on, the I-man is rich! You’ll be promoted to junior cyber ruler, to oversee the superhuman colonization of Dad’s not so secret project called, Planet Prestige."

Gen’s father steadied himself. Gen, not now. Your grades are embarrassing enough, and if it weren’t for Shinnosuke, you would be gone.

Come on, Dad. Everyone wants your money, and you just want to look like a hero. Are you working on wife number three? Gen said, and grinned.

A near shout caused Shinnosuke to stiffen. Enough—leave, before I throw you out.

Discipline immune, Gen shrugged. See you later, Shinnosuke.

Gen’s father turned to face Uncle Tanaka. Mr. Tanaka, I apologize for the crude outburst. Gen is so fond of Shinnosuke the talk of him leaving has Gen greatly disturbed. I plead with you. Allow Shinnosuke to live with us. He’ll have the best of care.

Uncle Tanaka stood and Shinnosuke felt the burden mount. Doctor, I’m a simple person and flattered you think so highly of the boy, but I am afraid he might not fit neatly into your plans.

May I speak, Uncle?

Certainly, please, the principal said.

Gen has been the only one at school that doesn't treat me like a freak.

A voice from just outside the door penetrated the room. We can freak together. They laughed. Gen could find a laugh in every corner.

Well, if this means the boy will continue his studies then I’ll have no choice but to accept Dr. Iwai’s generosity, Uncle Tanaka said.

Gen stepped in and guided him to the door.

Uncle Tanaka nodded.

Where are you taking me?

Anywhere, away from these boring people, especially him. Gen pointed. Dad, this month’s credit is maxed, give us some real money. We’re going for lunch and a movie.

If you get thrown out of school, you’ll have plenty of time for movies. You can go only if Shinnosuke helps you with your homework.

I’ll make sure he does it, Gen said. Gen’s father followed them into the hall.

Thanks, Dad.

Gen held out his hand. Fluent in rude and impeccably dressed Gen pushed him forward.

5

IWAI RESIDENCE, MINATO KU, TOKYO Excitement in his eyes, Gen led Shinnosuke through an arched gate and stopped in front of a set of storm doors. Gen zoomed in close, bared his teeth to a camera sensor, growled, and the doors swung open. Dental recognition, Gen said. I set it to low security, the place is already a fortress. Gen pointed to the security grate windows. Dad wants me locked down at night. He’s the star of the stage house but this place isn’t bad either, the man is big into techno-flash, yeah, I like it too.

A cool air front flowed from the entrance. Here, I need to help you until they finish the new place, Gen said and guided him up a newly constructed ramp into the apartment. Gen paused and looked over to the gothic building next to them. When MCR (Madam Cosmetic Rina) is around I can't even use the main door to the main house. Dad keeps me quarantined here with Bimbo. All because MCR, his latest perfume thrill hates me. Maybe I shouldn't have asked how much gel she had injected into the saggy parts.

Gen cued him to laugh but Shinnosuke stayed silent and enjoyed the crisp cool air tracking his head as Gen pushed him deeper into the oak paneled living room and pointed. All this wood has been harvested from our forest in Hida, or so he says. Unlike Dad's family relationships the wood is sustainable and sort of ugly. Tell me if it’s too cold and I’ll tell CLIME-COM to profile you into a custom weather system. I can't stand indoor heat.

Gen threw himself into a mini car sized sheepskin covered sofa and called. Menu. A table screen activated. Thirty minutes - all the best of Tokyo delivered. Don't ever let Dad convince you his hospital food is edible. The selection scrolled, stopped and highlighted. It’s a lot smarter than me, I don't even know what I want.

Shinnosuke admired the system and wondered how Gen set it up. We could cook together. My grandmother taught me a few dishes, Shinnosuke said.

The kitchen is way–that way, Gen said and pointed down the blue acrylic walled hallway, lights behind them turned on. Kitchen, I hate you, Gen called, and the lights brightened. Pretty dumb huh, it doesn't even understand the word ‘hate’. Like Dad, it thinks everyone likes him.

Gen rubbed his long fingers together. Cooking would ruin my piano hands.

You play the piano? Shinnosuke said.

Of course not, but I might take it up one day and I want to be ready.

Clearly Gen was a different and mutating species and Shinnosuke envied him.

You are going to have to endure an inferior life until our new bliss chamber is complete, Gen said and tapped a button on the monitor table. A 3D image sprang up and the virtual house tour began. Oh no here it dies, Gen said. The tour faded and vanished. Gen strummed the monitor. Darn thing. There goes my demo. Thirsty?

Sure.

Iced tea, okay?

Great.

Time to meet my number one friend Bimbo. Gen spoke into his watch, paused, and shrugged. Like I said – the new place is going to be grand. Gen made the selection from the screen. The voice recognition is still wacky.

We could make the tea ourselves.

I’ll pretend you never said that. Besides, lemon juice is bad for the skin. Bimbo needs an overhaul and is a bit slow but let’s watch, he might drop something and blame Dad. Camera views opened from the kitchen. Shinnosuke had seen the demo and was captivated by the silver swiveling robot slicing a lemon and filling glasses with ice. Gen leaned back and clicked his fingers. You can’t act like this with real people.

Shinnosuke listened to rubber track patter come from the hall, a tray level in the robot’s hands.