Aki the Novice

Serizawa’s motorcycle roared through the streets. Noises of the engine got more noticeable, the further we pulled away from the city. We went west from Nerima into Neo-III Tokyo’s auxiliary ward: Île-de-Dominus. The name wasn’t linguistically or etymologically perfect, but semantics aside, the colloquial name was Isle of Masters. Land of the gothic, land of the New Roman.

The ward consisted of a sprawling suburban environment split by an artificial river.

North of the river, the houses resembled villas of the New Roman Revival designs. Bleached white walls and slanted red tile roofs. A courtyard with greenery or a water feature. For the right price, slave quarters. Owning slaves was legal, but it was illegal to make them work.

South of the river, the houses resembled gothic cathedrals rendered in miniature. Each house had vaulted ceilings, spires, stained glass windows, and a vague sense of villainous doom. For the right price, lightning rods. The rods ensured the ideal, thunderous ambiance.

However, nobody owned the properties anymore. The houses were expensive and impractical. Vagrants lived there instead. As we drove, I counted at least a hundred red lights in the windows. Serizawa spotted me from her side mirror, slapped my leg, and text scrolled across her visor. It read:

‘Eyes front.’

I did as commanded, yet in my periphery I continued to sense the red dots. As we escaped the tight suburban streets, Serizawa slowed down, flipped up her visor, and twisted her head one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. I nearly screamed; I’d forgotten she had contortion modifications. ‘The lights are from Jargoyles. Best to move fast and avoid eye contact.’

‘You mean gargoyles?’ I replied.

‘Did I stutter? Jargoyle. J-A-R. They perch like gargoyles but toss jars of piss at pedestrians.’

‘…For fun?’

‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

‘If they can afford thermo-dynamic ocular implants, why live as vagrants?’

‘The red eyes aren’t cybernetics.’ She blindly rounded a sharp corner and drove straight toward a steep staircase in the distance. ‘The Jargoyles abused kyratalsate until the thinnest skin on their bodies corroded. Eyelids, mostly. The problem is their eyes got dry, so they implanted ducts in the corners to spray an organic mist, almost like wiper fluid. The problem is they’re still exposed to the sun, so they’re only active at night. Problem is they can’t see too well in the dark, so they injected bioluminescent mites into their eyes. Now they glow red.’

‘Won’t the mites eat their eyes?’

‘The mist lets the mites survive. The mites let the Jargoyles survive. Circle of life, baby.’

We reached the end of the street. On a lonesome hill, up the steep stairs, sat a Shinto shrine. Not TeleShinto. I’m talking old school red gates, stone statues, and offertory boxes with coins rather than digital credits.

Serizawa mounted the curb, parked against a fence, and helped me climb the stairs. ‘Welcome home,’ she said.

‘You live in a shrine?’

‘Actually, a dilapidated pagoda behind the shrine.’

‘Being a Venator lets you own a dilapidated pagoda?’

‘I rent a dilapidated pagoda.’

‘And now I have to live there?’

‘You get to live there.’ She clapped my shoulder. ‘Stop being so cynical. Think of it like a sleepover. A really, really long sleepover.’

We crossed the shrine’s courtyard and rounded the main building. Silhouetted shrine maidens ate dinner within. Their soft chatter reached my ears like a whispered breeze. Beyond stood the pagoda.

Two tiers of the pagoda remained, as the upper levels had been cleaved away in a vicious storm. Two doors were propped against the outer wall. Closing the doors meant dragging them over the entrance. Four supporting pillars formed a square space inside. Occupying the space: A sleeping bag on a yellowed futon, worn paperbacks, fashion magazines, jugs of water, an electric lantern, an ice box, radio, separate bags for clothes and toiletries, and what passed for a calligraphy desk.

Serizawa pulled off her boots and chucked them among similar pairs. ‘We’ll have to share my sleeping bag tonight.’

‘Share,’ I repeated, and stared at the sleeping bag as though an ominous black cat.

‘Don’t be weird.’ Serizawa popped open a canned, pre-mixed whiskey cocktail. She downed half, flopped onto the futon, and gestured for me to sit.

‘Let me get this straight,’ I said, pacing between the pillars. ‘A few hours ago, you had a Venator licence.’

‘Very good,’ Serizawa mocked.

‘But, you live in this ramshackle…’ I tapped the floor with my heel. It sounded hollow. I gave a slow, knowing nod to Serizawa. ‘Ah, I understand.’

She rolled onto her side. ‘I don’t think you do.’

I tracked the hollow sounds to a hatch. Lifting it, I peeked inside – and found a ditch filled with bullets and bottles of spirit. I had hoped to find an elaborate underground base.

Serizawa leaned around my side. ‘What did you understand?’

I whirled to her, as more rage than intended suffused my voice. ‘What are you?’

‘You’ll need to elaborate.’

‘Do you have off-shore assets?’

‘I wish.’

‘You’re not wearing your wealth.’

She plucked at the hem of her singlet. ‘That’s true.’

‘Where the hell is all the money you got as a Venator?’ I snapped.

‘How do you know I don’t have a major substance addiction?’

‘If you spent a twentieth of your earnings on drugs, your heart would’ve exploded by now!’

‘Aki, Aki.’ Serizawa placed both hands on my shoulders, which rose and fell. Unconsciously, I’d bared my teeth like a wolf. She spoke without her usual sardonic tone. A sober, reassuring clarity filled her visage. ‘Being a Venator made me rich. I spent those riches. I may not look like the Venators you admire, but I don’t regret my life. For now, please sit down. Your legs are bleeding.’

I glanced down. Trails of crimson dripped from my calves into my socks like melted icing. I winced, as if seeing it triggered the pain. Serizawa helped me to a pillar, where I slid down to rest. Her gentle hands replaced the bandages with clean ones.

‘Aesthetics matter,’ I replied, somewhat delirious.

‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ she whispered, unzipping the sleeping bag to spread across me.

An idle melancholy filled me and I struggled not to cry. My first night as a Venator was supposed to be different. I missed my parents. I missed Taeko. I fell asleep.

#

Sunrise bled into the pagoda. I rubbed my eyes and took a minute to process the surroundings. My legs didn’t hurt too much. I removed the temp-tech and stood. Where was Serizawa? As I searched the pagoda, the front doors scraped sidelong and Serizawa shuffled inside. Her arms were laden with rice balls, cup noodles, and canned soup.

We sat on either side of the calligraphy desk and distributed the food between us. I felt a vague embarrassment for my conduct over the last twenty-four hours. I bowed, forehead nearly on the table. ‘Thank you, Serizawa Masako.’

‘Finally.’

‘You gave me your Venator licence and saved my life. In addition, you have permitted me to live with you.’

Serizawa wiped rice from her upper lip. ‘Let’s get a few things straight. One, you’re not living with me. By inheriting my licence, the Sumiaka-kai will view us as mentor and apprentice. Second, you owe me. Third, call me Mako.’

‘Mako,’ I tested. It sounded girly and youthful. Mako, I thought.

Serizawa Masako. Very well. Mako.

Mako finished her breakfast and lit a cigarette. ‘Don’t expect a perfect mentor.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You’ll learn on the job. It’s not like there’s a Venator school.’

‘Well…’ I chewed and chewed.

‘Tell me you’re joking,’ she said, eyes half-lidded.

‘The Sumiaka-kai do fund a preparatory school in the Appalachian Mountains.’

‘I think I hate that, and I think I hate you by association.’ She laughed, and I permitted myself a smile. She offered me a cigarette, which I declined.

‘Did you hope to attend, Syndikid?’

‘Please, don’t call me that.’

‘Suppose you’re a Syndiman now.’ Mako laughed, checked her phone, and choked on her smoke. ‘We gotta go,’ she wheezed, pushing our breakfast scraps into a bag. A text from Iju Wataru informed us Asa-8 was on the way to the shrine. Neither of us knew the reason, but it couldn’t be good.

I put the temp-tech onto my legs while Mako arranged the pagoda to look like we hadn't spent the night. This accomplished, I followed her outside and shivered at a sudden gust.

A beautiful sunrise blinded me. I wished there was time to enjoy it.

Mako sprinted to the stairs but recoiled. ‘She’s already here,’ she hissed. We spun every direction, looking for another exit. I suggested we flee into the surrounding bamboo, only to learn they were holograms. Asa-8 would detect the distortion, and the hill on that side was too steep to traverse. ‘The shrine,’ Mako said, and pushed me toward the entrance.

The shrine maidens shrieked as we burst inside. Mako shushed them. I apologised. We crossed the polished wooden floor, reached an alcove between pillars, and carried a lattice screen to hide us from view. Our shoulders touched. We panted.

‘Asa-8 cares about this religious fluff. She won’t barge in.’

‘Is this sacrilegious?’ I whispered.

‘I’ll take my chances.’

We stayed motionless, breaths shallow. The shrine maidens calmed down and went about their morning routine. The entrance slid open. Did the maidens leave, or did Asa-8 enter?

Footsteps. Slow, imposing.

The lattice screen slid away and clattered to the floor. Asa-8 stood before us. Her expression was haughty not vengeful, the sort of look where all parties knows one is victorious and it doesn’t need to be voiced. She spoke, measured and taunting:

‘It’s true, then.’

She turned on her platform heels. Mako and I left the alcove and followed. Along the way, I noted our mistake: Two sets of shoeprints dirtied the polished wooden floor.

In the shrine’s courtyard, Asa-8 chewed mint gum and exhaled foggy breath into the crisp morning air. Her chin to Mako, she asked: 

‘What are you planning, Catthorn?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Giving your licence to this brat.’

My jaw clenched, but I held back a retort. Mako slapped me on the shoulder. ‘I intend to nurture the next generation of Venators,’ she answered.

Asa-8 returned a mirthless smile and blew a greenish bubble with her gum. It didn’t pop. She let it deflate and chewed it back into her mouth, as if a lioness with a rodent carcass. ‘I’m assigning you shepherding in the Balkans.’

‘Respectfully, Aki needs to be trained.’

‘I agree. Hence, Balkans.’

Asa-8 took a step toward me. Though shorter, her harsh gaze held fire aplenty. Clones had strange eyes. It was not because of their literal eyes, but rather because eye contact felt like staring into a void, with the entity aware of their own fabrication, aware they could die and be regrown within a year. And the clones of Gushiken Asa had eyes worse than any others: Their gaze burned a morbid implication into your mind. They liked being regrown.

‘Yesterday, you asked what I did during the Rat King’s attacks,' she told me. 'I do this. I ensure the syndicate continues to operate while people like your parents play soldier-celebrity.’

‘And I’m very grateful,’ I sneered.

Asa-8 raised an open hand, as if to slap me. She glanced at Mako. She’s not going to—

Asa-8's hand cracked like a whip and I fell to the pavement. It didn’t just sting; it felt a handful of giant hornets wanted me dead. I gasped and licked blood from my lip. I started to stand, but Asa-8 kicked me down. She landed two more kicks to my torso, enough to hurt, not enough to fully impair. I couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. What little air I did get into my lungs felt like inhaling ash.

Asa-8 straightened her suit, spat her gum into my hair, and marched to the stairs. ‘Balkans,’ she reminded. ‘You depart tomorrow.’

Once Asa-8 left, Mako helped me stand. ‘You good?’ she asked. 

‘I am in…great pain.’ My breath caught. ‘Good to know my mentor will stand up for me.’

‘Hey, I’m not a Venator. Plus, we’re still part of the Sumiaka-kai.’

‘I could go independent.’

‘And get blacklisted by every company even remotely linked to the syndicates? Yeah, no. Asa-8 won’t go against the Yagi family, but you’re barely a Yagi now. You’re just Akinori. But, hey, you’ve got me.’

‘And I’m very grateful.’

She grabbed the gum and pulled my hair taut. I winced. ‘You are a brat, you know that?’ She snipped the affected hair using her Cat-Claw blades.

We returned to the pagoda.

‘So, Balkans,’ I started, massaging my sternum. ‘Shepherding. Exciting.’

‘She’s reminding us who’s in charge.’

Shepherding was the colloquial term for overseeing the transport of syndicate cargo. New members handled it. The “work” involved sitting in truck beds and freight trains, guarding against attacks and employee theft. The Balkans may have maintained a century of volatility, but nobody attacked the Sumiaka-kai’s cargo.

Sure, you could read or watch movies. Except, it’s hard to read in jostling trucks. It’s hard to watch movies in a cargo-crowded train. It’s hard to enjoy either after doing them every day for months.

Plus, the Sumiaka-kai’s Automated Random Response System (ARRS) sent requests at random times. Failure to respond meant you’d have screwed up the easiest job in the syndicate. They didn’t design the system for efficiency. They designed it because some new syndicate lieutenant wanted to prove his promotion was worthwhile. Since the system only affected computers and new recruits, nobody cared enough to change it.

‘Did you smell her perfume?’ Mako asked me.

‘I was busy getting kicked.’

‘I have olfactory enhancers good enough to challenge bloodhounds. But, Asa-8 never smells like much. Today, she smelled of perfume, the expensive stuff with real ambergris.’

‘So?’

‘Think she has a date?’

‘Tough to imagine.’

‘True.’ Mako crossed her arms and paced. ‘Maybe Satan got bored of tormenting souls.’

‘That’s…a bit extreme,’ I replied.

Mako crouched beside me with a sudden, grave expression. ‘Did you know I used to serve as a Corpse Maiden with the original Gushiken Asa?’ she asked, to which I shook my head. ‘I was her partner. She recited rites to the dying, while I handled the corpses. Honestly, it’s a great career. We worked well, but I noticed a lot of the corpses had a weird face. Sort of twisted, like their emotion bled from life to death.’

Mako lit a cigarette, lip curled, as if regretting she’d started the story. I waited.

‘One day, I eavesdropped on Gushiken Asa as she recited the rites. But, she didn’t. Instead, if the person was religious, she whispered about how they were going to hell. If they had families, she whispered about how they were alone and unloved.’

Mako extracted a kyratalsate tablet from her shorts and swallowed it dry. I held my breath, equally from abdominal pain and the story. ‘Then what?’ I asked, barely audible.

‘I reported it. They kicked her out. They kicked me out, too, being her partner. Nothing went public. Can’t have a scandal, with how much trust is given the Corpse Maidens.’

Nothing moved in the pagoda, save smoke from Mako’s cigarette. ‘Sorry,’ I said, though I wasn’t certain Mako heard. She shot to her feet and wiped ash from her thigh, which only smudged it.

‘This sucks,’ she said, and pointed at me. ‘You’re coming with me to the pleasure quarters, and then I’ll be coming in the pleasure quarters.’

I grimaced. ‘It’s barely sunrise.’

‘Exactly, so it won’t be busy.’

‘How did the CVC not take your licence away?’

‘They’d have to fire themselves,’ she countered, with her usual empty laugh. She skipped away like a schoolgirl. I went along, though I had other plans for the day.

So, while Mako did…whatever or whoever…I caught a taxi deeper into the city. The taxi detected my Venator licence, resulting in two things: First, no fare. Second, these words from the driver:

‘Temporary CIC, sir?’

What’s CIC? 

‘Uh, yeah, sure.’

The partition and windows went black. The world outside went mute. A dim light switched on. Green holograms filled the space between seats. Along the windows, various data sets cycled: Flight paths, meetings between political leaders, cities the Rat King might target, traffic density, stock candlesticks, and more.

‘Combat Information Centre complete,’ a robotic, feminine voice said. ‘Please issue a command.’

I stammered. ‘Best cybernetics in Neo-III Tokyo.’

The hologram changed to a map. White dots marked MechDoc clinics in Minato ward. I asked for armament outlets, and more white dots joined the existing.

‘I-I’m looking for Managi Taeko.’ I wasn't, but I wanted to test the system's limits. 

The hologram listed addresses, contact information, and medical reports for every person named Managi Taeko.

‘Venators,’ I exhaled. 

Tapping the white dots, I selected a clinic and outlet. Before we left for the Balkans, I wanted to upgrade my prosthetics, software, and equipment. And…buy a suit. And books. And a tablet for movies.

It looked to be a long few months.

#

Mako and I spent three months shepherding. Let me repeat that, in case your eyes glazed over the number. Three months. Twelve weeks. Ninety days. My ass became extremely familiar with the texture of truck beds and freight trains. I read twenty-four books, watched an unknown number of movies, and felt my sanity slip away as Mako played the pop-punk song “Midnight Miser” on repeat for upward of twelve hours.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked.

‘I love this song.’

‘Do you love any other songs?’

‘Not currently.’

I’m loath to admit, but the only rewarding part of shepherding was talking to Mako. The work detached us from Venators, syndicates, the Rat King, violence, cyberspace, and carnal delights. Sometimes the freight trains were automated, so we were literally the only two living people for miles.

‘Who’s the prime minister of Japan?’ Mako asked one evening.

‘Uh…Kuroda?’

Mako shook her head. ‘Who’s the CEO of the AvMak conglomerate?’

‘Julius Buchanan.’

‘Bloody Syndikids. Bet your favourite bedtime story was The Very Hungry Capitalist.’

‘Anti-capitalist sentiment? You’re so archaic,’ I replied. ‘Besides…I preferred The Little Company That Could.’

Mako stared at me. I stared at her. Mako’s lip twitched. She cracked and laughed, and I smiled. But…then I laughed, too. We continued to laugh, though it wasn’t funny. Mako rolled on the floor and I braced against a cargo crate. Blame fatigue.

‘Shit,’ I said, rushing to answer the flashing ARRS. As I went between train cars, I took the chance to look around. We’d arrived in Bucharest, the capital of Romania, according to schedule. But…we didn’t stop.

The train continued out of the city. I checked for employees, but the train was unmanned. I reached the front car and manually jacked into the Motive-Manager. The interface made me want to vomit, but I navigated to the history tab. Sure enough, new scheduling orders had been issued. We were going to Kolyagrad.

I relayed the information to Mako, who shrugged. ‘Probably just an exhibition run for their fancy new railway.’ She offered me a cigarette, which I declined.

I fiddled with my newly-bought Kasagi MK.IV semi-automatic rifle, using the auto-cycled magazines to create a satisfying:

Click! Click! Click!

It wanted to be fired, and I wanted to fire it.