Part 2: The Concerned Colonels' Club
Tokyo-3, Ashigarashimo SAD, Japan
February 11th, 2016
Shinano Haruna would be thirty-eight soon, and in all her career she had never seen a Japanese city so reduced to ruin by human devices, though the entrance to unfriendly territory was demarcated not so much by the piles of street-choking concrete rubble as by the bronzed Mongolian with the turnbolt Mauser who stood watch on a derelict window-washer's scaffold above. The rubble itself was no specialty to this quarter - the entire city was strewn with shattered cement, broken glass, burnt-out vehicles and, most worryingly, unexploded ordnance. Her personal culpability only added a bitter edge to that somber knowledge.
Leave it to the refugees to find a way to live in the middle of all this, she thought. Can't be much worse than their old home.
Since the Mongolian seemed content to unobtrusively observe from on high, Shinano carefully picked up her pace. There would be a reception committee forming ahead, she didn't doubt, or at least an interrogator or two. All this in lenience, no less - had she come in uniform, they would have barred her. Had she brought associates, even the mild-mannered Sergeant Tachibana, the ragtag masses in these parts would be greeting her with bayonets fixed. Such were the times.
''Stop! Stop there!''
Just the one interrogator, then. She was a scrawny woman approaching middle age, the inflection of her broken English hinting at a Philippine background. Shinano stood in silence as she drew near, taking in the detail of the grease-stained coveralls and the frayed canvas bag under the refugee's right arm. ''What you want?'' the woman asked at last.
''I want no trouble.'' Shinano weighed her own words carefully, keenly aware of the need to convey her meaning unambiguously without sounding patronizing or contemptuous. ''I want to talk to Wakamiya-san, that is all.''
''Wakamiya is busy,'' the woman shrugged, ''but visitors always welcome, he say, so come on.'' So saying, she turned about and began to retrace her course with heightened energy. Shinano followed, matching the other's steps as she weaved between gnarly rebar stumps and piles of twisted scrap dragged aside to make the street pedestrian-passable. At the next corner sat a tank, a squat black Mitsubishi with a lightning bolt emblem on its side and a jagged hole in the frontal armor where another tank had decisively proven it obsolete. The refugees had stripped the wreck of everything usable, deploying its electronics and secondary armaments elsewhere. Past the tank, Shinano's guide took a left. This had been a commercial area once, lined with shops and service venues. Most of the former establishments' signs remained in their places, over doors and in the occasional surviving window, but the proprietors had all fled or folded.
Rrrip!
The refugee let out a yelp as the aft seam of her bag let go. Her arm clamped down on it, not quite in the nick of time: one of the items inside fell out and came to rest at Shinano's feet, a round steel can coated in scuffed and chipped charcoal-tone paint. The end of a cartridge belt hung from a slot in the top like a grim parody of the movie reels of old. Ammunition for a Degtyarov machine gun, Shinano noted, turning it over in her hands. The rounds in the belt bore a Russian commercial headstamp, their gray-green protective lacquer fresh and unblemished. That's interesting. ''Here,'' she said aloud, handing the can back.
Her companion merely stuffed it into the bag, rearranged said bag and resumed her walk, leaving Shinano to file the incident away and resume her own campaign of subtle observation along the length of the next street and a half. The action was mutual - she could feel suspicious eyes on her back the entire time. The surveillance abated once the visitor and her companion turned onto a narrower side street, eventually coming to the premises of a onetime ramen vendor. ''In there,'' said the refugee curtly, and departed without more ado.
Slightly nonplussed, Shinano approached the bullet-pocked counter. ''Wakamiya-san..?''
''Be there in a moment.'' There came a shuffling and then Wakamiya Hideo appeared, a weary silver-haired man dressed in the robe and cap of a Shinto priest. ''Pardon my other visitor,'' he continued as Katsuragi Misato joined him at the counter.
Both looked surprised to see the newcomer in a way which didn't readily make sense to Shinano: she had met the old man and the vivacious Nerv operations director before, so surely her towering height or her aggressive bristle of close-cropped brown hair weren't to blame. ''Er... Is this a bad time?''
''No worse than most,'' the priest replied gravely, setting his elbows on the countertop. ''So what brings Colonel Shinano of the Strategic Self-Defense Forces all the way out here?''
''And in civilian dress, even,'' Katsuragi chimed in, throwing a speculative look at Shinano's ill-fitting shorts and sleeveless top. ''Not following orders today?''
The insinuation wasn't lost on the soldier. ''I have the day off,'' she explained, trying not to grind her teeth. ''I thought the least I could do is spend some time with Itsuki. Is he around?''
''He's at school.'' Wakamiya's expression softened, as if he had been bracing himself for some more serious matter. ''I don't expect he'll want to see you, though.''
''He never will, if I don't try,'' Shinano answered determinedly.
''So,'' Katsuragi inquired as she and Shinano left the refugee perimeter behind them, ''how are things in Atsugi?''
''The same as before.'' This was the convention which had been established between the two, of preventing a repeat of the city's destruction through informal chatter and mutual leaks of minor intelligence. It did more to shore up trust than the hot air of a hundred official meetings. ''The rain of LCL brought my troops back to life, but not my tanks or my jets. There aren't even enough small arms to go around now.''
''Tokyo-Two isn't taking any chances with the SSDF,'' Misato concurred. ''It's been, what, six weeks now since Third Impact?''
''Yes,'' Shinano agreed sourly. ''Seele collapsed and took the UN with it, the world's turned into one great standoff and now we're a scapegoat for the bureaucrats to wrangle over. The left can't get enough votes to prosecute us and the right can't get enough to reinstate us - what are we supposed to do, get down on our knees and beg forgiveness for being the puppets of puppets?''
''All any of us can do is look after our dependents, I suppose... And try to keep up to date with things happening elsewhere. Maybe Nerv isn't much better off - we've been put to work chasing UFOs.''
''UFOs... Oh, you mean the epidemic of radar anomalies?''
''Yes... Just a token job to make us look useful, I'm sure.''
''Until the city is cleaned up and the civilians come back, you mean.'' Shinano looked for a sign of confirmation, which was not long in arriving. ''What about the refugees?''
''Tokyo-Two would have us pack them back off to the Limited-Intervention Zone,'' Katsuragi sighed, ''but we made a deal and we're going to abide by it so long as the refugees don't cause trouble... Not that we could really expel them by force if we wanted to.''
''I would think not,'' Shinano replied gravely. ''The militia back there has its magazines well topped-off... You know, that man at the last checkpoint had an impressive night sight on his Kalashnikov - think they'd sell us any?''
''Your budget's been cut that much?'' When the other nodded, Misato shook her head. ''What do you make of the government situation?''
''As one colonel to another?'' Shinano asked. ''Oh, congratulations on the promotion, by the way.''
''I'm regretting it already,'' the younger woman said ruefully. ''Whatever you have, I suppose.''
''I heard the Ibuki family have gotten the support of that pretender to the imperial throne, whatever his name is.'' Shinano paused to watch an errant bird pass over, silhouetted against the clear afternoon sky. ''I can't say I'm reassured by it.''
Misato frowned. ''I think I'm more worried about the support they already have from the Great Sun Society. The situation would be delicate enough without that gang running unchecked.''
''Agreed.'' Shinano shook her head at the memories. ''If it's any consolation, the political fringe-clingers have turned against us as well. In their eyes my refusal to give support when they attacked that refugee convoy in Hiratsuka makes us traitors to the fatherland, never mind our standing orders, the rules of engagement and the risk of provoking foreign intervention...''
''Really?'' Misato let out a whistle. ''They're not satisfied even though you ultimately wound up fighting the refugees, the Russians and Chinese, and ourselves all at the same time?''
''And lost,'' Shinano pointed out. ''A good thing in retrospect, I won't deny, but...'' There was an exasperated sigh. ''They should have known better. We should have known better.''
''And now the Society is trying to find a legal representative of the refugees so that they can sue for the worth of all the weapons they lost in the attack, never mind that those weapons were illegally procured and held to begin with.''
''Yes...''
The Nerv officer thankfully picked up on Shinano's discomfort at recalling the circumstances of her failure and changed the subject. ''Speaking of the Chinese, Kan Li was here on Monday.''
''Colonel Kang?'' Shinano echoed, her pronunciation the better. ''I heard she'd lost her bodyguard posting under Ambassador Zheng, but I don't have the details.''
''Apparently it was a rejected love,'' Misato said. ''She was always devoted to his daughter, but I guess she went a little too far.''
''Ah.'' The SSDF woman took a second to digest the news. ''That kind of love, huh?''
''Don't see why he was so upset,'' Misato continued. ''I mean, we have people here who are like that. People grumble and say it's immature, of course, but they're upstanding employees.''
''I'm sure.'' Shinano considered it a little more. ''Wouldn't have expected this from Colonel Vinegar, though. I have a feeling Zheng has been looking for an excuse to get rid of her ever since that Hong Kong incident.''
''The kidnapping in December, you mean.'' Misato weaved to pass an uncleared outcropping of fallen wall. ''Because she slipped up in the first place, I wonder, or because she took the initiative to get the girl back?''
''Who knows?'' Shinano stretched her arms. ''Either way, that can't be her only worry. Look at the state China's in, nearly coming apart at the joints. Russia and the EU aren't far behind, and even the United States is starting to boil over... Thirteen years of relative peace and the unifying effect of the Angel threat made us complacent, but today we're sending the architects of that peace to the cell and the scaffold as fast as we can catch them. We've woken up from the dream.''
''I'm wishing I were asleep again,'' her companion opined. ''Even if it was a peace arranged by men who wanted it only so they could destroy us all at their leisure, I felt like I had a purpose then. I felt like I was doing something that really counted, you know?''
''I know the sentiment, but...'' Shinano stopped walking as the two came to a parking lot which played host to the decaying hull of a Russian gunship, another casualty of the fight which had scarred Tokyo-3. ''I wouldn't go back to that life, back to being someone who could - someone who did kill indiscriminately, without ever asking myself why... I wouldn't go back for anything.''
''Itsuki-kun's really changed you,'' Misato remarked. ''Even if he resists changing himself.''
''Mm.'' Shinano turned away from the derelict helicopter. ''How much further?''
''Right, sorry - just another five minutes or so.''
The municipal junior high school was still open despite the widespread damage, a feat which slightly impressed Shinano. The facility itself struck her as depressingly bland, though it had perhaps looked better before the grounds were plowed and puckered by malfunctioning munitions. Our munitions, she remembered. So much for first-rate fuzing!
''Over here,'' Misato prompted, leading the way towards the back of the grounds. The path twisted and turned, carrying the duo past a mixed group of students attending an open-air lecture on the English language by a distinguished Anglo-African. From there, the trek brought them to a pool and then a basketball court, the latter's hoops looking very much worse for wear. Around the sides of the court stood a loose assembly of students, their faces turned to the center.
Shinano glimpsed the tip of a wooden training sword on the upswing and heard the muted click of a camera shutter. So they're both here, she realized. Friends, or..? Still following Katsuragi, she edged into a gap and watched in silence as the two boys in the middle finished their routines.
''...Kaze-kun, hold that pose a second.'' Click. ''Okay...'' When Ikari Shinji had last crossed Shinano's path a month ago, her frank evaluation had been that the onetime Evangelion pilot was at high risk of developing a post-traumatic stress disorder. He seemed healthier now, risks of a lingering, lurking instability aside - had he picked up the pocket Casio and developed an interest, or had someone given it to him as a distraction? Perhaps it made no difference. ''Can you do that sideways thrust you showed us a minute ago? ...Don't hold this one, just act - act natural.'' Click.
''Ara,'' Shinano's escort interjected. ''Not photographing the pretty girls, Shinji-kun?''
''Wha..? Misato-san, what are you saying?''
Shinano squinted. Flushed cheeks, verbal stammer? Stiffen that lip, boy.
''Don't be a prude, now. Are you a boy or aren't you?''
''Misato-san, please...'' Shinji's voice trailed off. ''Oh, Shinano-san... Er...''
The boy with the wooden sword turned around, the sleeves and legs of his baggy, archaic garb billowing. His eyes, fixing on the soldier, narrowed to slits.
The colonel took a deep breath. ''Hello, Itsuki.''
Itsuki said nothing. He couldn't or wouldn't speak, instead conveying his thoughts through looks, gestures and sometimes scribbled notes. He needed no note to express himself here, however: what do you want, enemy?
Shinano Haruna would be thirty-eight soon, and in all her career she had never spared more than an occasional perfunctory letter to the child she had cast aside for the sake of her military duties. From the day she'd dropped out of university to enlist to the day she'd led her regiment into Tokyo-3 intent on wiping out Nerv, she'd always placed loyalty to state above loyalty to kin. Over the years, she had convinced herself that one day she would come back and find her son grown up into a man fit to carry on where she left off - brave, strong, noble and dedicated to Japan. It was a half-realized dream at best: even as a teenager Shinano Itsuki already exemplified the first three of the coveted attributes, but Japan could sink for all Wakamiya Kamikaze - his preferred name now, bestowed by the refugees who had adopted him - cared. His allegiance was with that society of outcasts and misfits, not with the worthless cousin his mother had entrusted him to and definitely not with any vague, arbitrary Japanese nation.
And so it was that the elder Shinano, a member of the Strategic Self-Defense Forces since its inception, had come back into the world six weeks before the present day full of bitter understanding, crawling out of a puddle of orange slime bearing cruel knowledge of death, of duty and of an alienated son who could see her only as the personification of his most hated foe. Against all odds her truce with Nerv and the refugees was holding fast and her command posting was momentarily secure - the hardest battle ahead was the personal one.
Misato, for her part, was also thinking of the past. There had been a plan once, a strategy for dealing with the relentless attacks of the Angels, and Seele's multifaceted scenarios coming from above, but it all came apart somewhere along the route. No plan survives contact with the other side, the old saying warned, but she appreciated now that the same went for contact with interloping third parties. Third Impact, Seele's fall, the new global crisis... None of it was according to any plan she knew. From the arrival of Eva-03 three months ago right up to the present, all had been as strangers directed it - strangers manipulating Nerv and Seele both in a war at once loftily abstract and bitterly personal. Seele had been sacrificed, Nerv saved: one stranger left dead, the other missing. It barely made sense.
Something Kang Li had said in passing on her way to the waiting aircraft, about those on whom responsibility for order and stability now fell, came to mind: ''They're already old, it doesn't matter to them any more.''
Misato thought it might be a quotation, but couldn't recall the source.