JULY 7, 2016 ATB
FILLMORE COUNTRY CLUB, JUST OUTSIDE THE KYOTO HONORARY SETTLEMENT
1230
"Oh… Oh… C'mon…" The ball trembled on the lip of the hole, perfectly balanced on the brink. The suspense of the moment was heady as Bradley, Bradley's unnamed caddy, and Lady Sophie Sumeragi, also called Kaguya, waited with bated breath. Or, in Kaguya's case and quite possibly that of the caddy's, waited behind expressions which were very convincing facsimiles of the eager tension written across Bradley's face.
Finally, with a desultory thump, gravity passed its verdict and the ball tumbled out of sight and went to its destiny in the depths of the hole.
"Huzzah!" Bradley's broad, pink face flushed with passion as he pumped his fist exultantly. "A birdie! I got a birdie!"
He actually said 'huzzah,' Kaguya marveled from the sanctuary of her mind. What century does this boy live in?
"Is that very good?" Kaguya asked with cloying sweetness, playing dumb and making a show of listening attentively as Bradley, the third son of a noble unimportant save for his post as the vice-president of the second largest trans-Pacific shipping concern, took the opportunity to "educate" her once again on the finer points of golf scoring, tooting his horn as he did so.
"Splendid showing, milord," the caddy said after Bradley finished explaining the difference between an eagle and an albatross, perhaps taking pity on Kaguya by cutting his noble master off before he could ramble any further. "That makes eight holes straight where you have come under par. Very well done, if I do say so myself. What a way to end this morning's game!"
"Thank you, Alex," Bradley, an overweight boy two years her senior, replied offhandedly, not even looking at the man. "Yes, a fine morning if I do say so myself." Seemingly remembering some scrap of his etiquette training, Bradley turned what he probably thought was a charming smile on Kaguya. "You did quite well yourself, Lady Sophie. At least, quite well for a… beginner."
Ah, what a graceful last-minute correction. And the man's name is Alex? Good to know.
It was always a good idea to learn small but important details like the names of the servants, at least in Kaguya's experience, even though she would never call the man by name, at least not anywhere his employer could hear her. It was also an excellent idea to politely ignore any peculiar gaps in sentences where a slur or a comment on her status or personal history might have been barely excised from the printer's tray of the speaker's mind just before publication.
To effectively play a role, the minor details were just as important as the broad sweeps. A poor performance of a "civilized" Britannian noble at one of these "encounters" could do greater damage to her acceptance in the Area's upper crust than showing up at tee time, or heaven forbid tea time, wearing a kimono.
After all, a full and public embrace of her native culture would convey the impression of perceived strength, even if it also conveyed temerity of the highest degree. Likewise, an excellent impression of a Britannian noble communicated an embrace of the Britannian way of life, as well as a certain willingness to "play ball", as it were, and to make sacrifices to meet the Britannians on their own terms.
A poor performance, on the other hand, only conveyed incompetence and weakness. Kaguya could afford neither.
"Thank you, my lord," Kaguya smiled sweetly at her suitor for the day. "Perhaps I will be able to impose on you again next weekend for another lesson? The Fillmore is such a beautiful course, after all… But good company makes it all the more enjoyable."
"Ah…" Somehow, Bradley found some way to become even more floridly pink, the color of his cheeks darkening to a shade that made Kaguya think of freshly sliced ham. It was an unfortunate shade, considering the boy's porcine face and the way his fair hair made him look all the pinker. "I… Umm… I'd like that…?"
The caddy, Alex, coughed lightly and Bradley's features firmed up.
"That is," the noble boy continued, his voice much firmer, "I would be willing to spare some time to help you improve your game, Lady Sophie. I am sure that, with my help, your handicap will drop to scratch in no time."
So not just a golfing caddy from the Club, hmm? Kaguya bobbed her head eagerly as she eyed the servant from the corner of her eye. A family servant, certainly. Perhaps Bradley's personal valet? Certainly a chaperone, sent to keep youthful hijinks in line and to make sure that the boy doesn't get too friendly with the Honorary, I'm sure. Pity that.
It came naturally to Kaguya to think of Bradley Dean as "the boy" despite him having two years on her. It was clear that Thaddeus Dean had not passed down much in the way of his business acumen to his third son, which was probably the reason the Britannian magnate was willing to consider even in passing a match between his boy and an Honorary Britannian. No matter that she was brilliant, that Sumeragi Industries was far more successful than Pacific Shipping Solutions ever could be, and no matter that the blood of emperors ran in her veins, while the Deans were mere lesser nobles with good business sense.
A third son was all an Honorary Britannian could rate, no matter how noble the Honorary was.
If Kaguya Sumeragi had truly been a social climbing Honorary eager for her children to be full Britannian nobles, she would have rejoiced to even get that sort of consideration, leaving Kaguya little choice in how to play her role.
And even that would be far too straightforward, now wouldn't it? If I play the "eager would-be Britannian" role too well, the Old Men might start getting tetchy again like the hypocrites they are. Kaguya sighed to herself, indulging in a moment of self-pity. Guess it's time to play the "demure maiden" card.
Kaguya carefully blushed and made a show of fiddling with the baggy fabric of her golfing trousers, the already voluminous garment made moreso after she bloused the legs into the high argyll-patterned socks. A touch of feigned embarrassment also gave her a fantastic excuse to look away from Bradley. He truly did resemble a pig, and not even a bristly boar brimming with bombast; indeed, Bradley looked fit to wallow in a sty, his mouth in the trough, and it was difficult not to mess up her poise and snicker at that mental image.
"I am honored you think so highly of me," she said, brushing an errant lock of her hair back behind her ear in a carefully calculated 'spontaneous' act of maidenly demurity. An old reliable, that, according to her official Britannian guardian, Lady Annabeth. "I am very thankful for your time. I am sure you are in high demand, and I appreciate your personal, undivided attention."
It was a bit of a dangerous move and not one that strictly fit with Lady Annabeth's lengthy lessons on Britannian courting etiquette, but Kaguya had always found it best to follow her instincts at times like this. She knew full well that Bradley was emphatically not in high demand, after all, evidenced by the way his father had instructed the boy to begin his attempt to court "a girl below his station."
She also knew that Bradley very much wanted to be wanted, and as he swelled up with self-importance before her, Kaguya knew that she had been right to trust her instincts.
He's barely even a Britannian, Kaguya thought with a trace of pity. Real Britannians lust for power and strive endlessly for it. I've met real Britannians. Bradley, though… Bradley just wants to be liked.
Tanya was more of a Britannian than him.
It was amazing the difference a little time could make. Just a week ago, Kaguya had felt all but helpless in the course of her life, her attempts to carve her own way frustrated by the accident of her birth and her desires to improve the lot of her people hobbled by the cautious conservatism of the Old Men.
And as far as anybody else outside of a chosen handful of close collaborators would know, none of that had changed.
Just another role to play, Kaguya mused as she burbled something simpering and enthusiastic as she followed Bradley towards the next hole. Honestly, it's starting to get a bit hard to keep them all straight.
The other Houses knew, of course, that the House of Sumeragi had contracted with the Kozuki Organization. Concealing the purchase and transportation of the supplies she had already shipped to Shinjuku would have been all but impossible, with the quantities to follow unmissable by any save the blind and fatally concussed. Instead, Kaguya had seized the initiative and brought the matter up at the last meeting of the house heads. Lord Tossei had been most displeased, but Lord Taizo had run interference on her behalf. The other three members of the Numbers Advisory Council were thankfully too absorbed with their own scheming to care, especially not after Lord Taizo had claimed that it was "important for the young lady to learn the importance of safe and sensible investments."
Which, if they were as canny as they think themselves to be, should have only served to heighten their suspicions. They are fully aware that Lord Taizo is my actual guardian, Lady Annabeth be damned, so what reason would he have to downplay my intelligence at a meeting save to obfuscate my goals?
"You know, Lady Sophie," Bradley said as he stumped up the hill to the next hole's teeing area, wiping the beading sweat from his brow with a monogrammed kerchief as he went, "there's no reason for us to be out in the heat of the day. The course isn't going anywhere, you know! Why don't we break for lunch at the Clubhouse?"
Cool and comfortable in her lightweight argyll-patterned golfing outfit, Kaguya didn't feel any particular need to retreat from the fairly mild noonday sun and she wasn't hungry either. On the other hand, she didn't care about golf and Bradley looked like he might actually melt if he was left outside for much longer.
Besides, I hear that the Fillmore has a complete dessert buffet on offer!
"Certainly, my lord," she said with a sweet smile, peering up at the Britannian from under her white flat-cap. "I could do with some refreshments myself!"
"Very good!" Bradley replied with poorly hidden relief. "Alex, tend to our clubs."
"Very good, milord." The caddy sketched a slight bow to Bradley before turning to Kaguya. "Lady Sophie, shall I take your clubs as well?"
The man's smile was appropriately servile, but his eyes were cold and assessing. Kaguya met them with the smoothly bland expression of disinterest reserved by Britannian noble etiquette for furniture and the help. It was a subtle test that Alex, if that was the servant's name, had sprung on her, but Kaguya already knew the correct response.
On one hand, a lady of her true rank did not speak directly to a mere valet, especially not one in the service of a club or another noble. Etiquette dictated that a lady of royal lineage only spoke to her handmaids, the ranking maid in charge of the household, and if she must, the butler, when in public. On the other hand, while Kaguya was the descendent of a cadet branch of an old imperial family, that family was no more and the empire they had ruled had not been Britannian and thus inferior. Claiming the same rights as a lady of the Britannian royal family could be a sign of disloyalty on her part.
So, instead of standing pointedly still and quiet or responding to the man's barb, she channeled just a touch of the fire she had seen glowing in Tanya's eyes as she recounted her first kill.
"The key, Lady Kaguya, was proving my competency in an undeniable manner."
The breath wooshed out of Alex's mouth as the 35 pound bag slammed into him like an inelegant sledgehammer, his knees thudding into the green as his strength left him.
"Oops!" Kaguya tittered behind a raised hand, coyly covering her mouth as she sought out Bradley's eyes. "I think your caddy's got butterfingers, Bradley!"
She pointed at her golf bag where it lay at the servant's feet, her drivers spilling out of the unzipped mouth. He had tried to grab the bag even as she'd rammed it into his gut, an impressive display of dedication considering how he had still scrambled for the handle as he wheezed for breath.
"He fumbled his catch… Wait," she put a finger to her chin, turning her face up in thought, "does this mean I got a hole in one?"
Bradley stared blankly at her for a moment, before snorting with laughter as he came back to himself. "For taking down Alex? Not hardly, Lady Sophie! Good show, though. Can't take lip from the help, eh?"
"Too true!" Kaguya agreed happily as she linked her arm around Bradley's in the prescribed manner for a young lady escorted on promenade.
All the while quashing the discomfort in her belly. Abusing the servants was a time-honored Britannian tradition, a casual reminder of noble privilege and might and thus beloved by the aristocracy, and so her role forced her to go along with the practice. Bleeding hearts stood out in Britannia, especially if they had Japanese faces.
She still hated the pointless cruelty of the culture of abuse, not to mention the waste. Kaguya had no issue with pointed and useful cruelty – no daughter of Kyoto who sought to maintain her position in a man's world could afford to be squeamish – but cruelty for its own petty sake did nothing but make more enemies.
And isn't that just Britannian culture in a nutshell, she thought wryly. Utter swine, greedy and bullying, power-hungry and always, always so desperate to show how dominant they are of everything around them. To them, the only unforgivable crime is that of weakness… Funny how they never realize how that constant clamoring for strength only makes them look weaker in everybody else's eyes.
One day, Kaguya promised herself once more, I will reveal their weakness for all to see. I think I have already found my best tool towards that goal… But for today, I must still play along.
"They're all the same, you know," she confided to Bradley as they strolled off down the hill, leaving Alex to handle both sets of clubs behind them, "all of the lower sorts. You wouldn't believe how much trouble my own Honorary housestaff gave me before I finally drove some manners into their heads."
"Oh?" Bradley chuckled, wiping his moist brow again with his handkerchief. "You know, hearing that from you should come as more of a surprise than it is. You really do have some teeth, Lady Sophie. No wonder my father's so impressed."
And there's that weakness, noted Kaguya with distaste. Bowing to the opinion of your father instead of drawing your own, only seeing a sweet face and finding that a tongue that can drizzle honied words can be bitter and venomous as well… And did you think I didn't hear the slightest hint of unease in your laugh, Bradley-boy? Time to set you back at your ease, I think.
"I will defer to your father's wisdom on that score," Kaguya demurred, smiling up at her companion again at just the right angle for her bright green eyes to peep out from under the brim of her cap, a practiced look of playful cuteness. "He's so smart! I'm really impressed with how well your family has done, Lord Bradley! A vice-president must be so busy all the time! I could never keep up with all of that!"
She was laying it on a bit thick, but Bradley was a bit thick too. No reason to risk him drawing the wrong conclusions.
"But you own your own company, don't you?" Bradley's big, stupid face creased in a frown of honest puzzlement. "Don't you know all of that… business stuff too?"
"Me?" Kaguya adopted an expression of artful surprise. "Lord Bradley, I have people for that! After all," she sniffed, "a lady doesn't dirty her hands with business outside of the household books, of course… Especially not when there's sweets to be had! I have heard so much about the Fillmore, but I have never been here before! Is it true that they have an entire kitchen devoted to the dessert menu?"
"It's true," Bradley acknowledged, before adding with a sniff, "although the food is, in my opinion, barely adequate. Let me assure you, Lady Sophie, that the chefs back at the Dean Estate in the Homeland are far finer."
Before Kaguya could follow that comment up with the usual round of giggled flattery, an almost furtive look passed over Bradley's face. When her golfing companion spoke again, his voice lacked the usual noble oiliness; for the second time that day, Kaguya felt like she was seeing a shy boy glancing out from around the edges of the edifice of the scion.
"That's what Dad says, at least. But, between you and me…" Bradley was muttering, and were they not all but alone, the heavily laden Alex trailing behind them on the hill, Kaguya would have thought he was trying to avoid being overheard, "the Crème brûlée is really, really good. I'm not really supposed to like it, since it's European and all, but…"
Well, well, what do you know? It looks like there might be a real person somewhere inside the Brit pig after all.
"If what you say is true…" Kaguya replied, voice solemn and grim… "then your secret will be safe with me, Lord Bradley." The mock seriousness slid from her tongue like a viper's molt, leaving an impish smile behind. "Us sugar lovers gotta stick together, eh?"
As Bradley beamed down at her, his smile far less stiff and uneasy than before, Kaguya pressed her advantage and wrapped her hand around his. "Come on! Why are we standing around in the heat when there's desserts with our names on them waiting for us? Come on!"
It turned out that, no matter Bradley's numerous other faults, chief among them the bad taste displayed by being born Britannian, he had an excellent taste in food extending beyond a keen eye for sweets. Over their extravagant lunch, thankfully free of the usual protocols in the designated informal space of the clubhouse dining room, the third son spoke knowledgably and at great length about all of the dishes Kaguya chose to sample. From the selection of vinaigrettes that arrived with the salad starter to a step by step explanation of how the much-vaunted Crème brûlée was prepared, the teen was a practical font of knowledge.
Incidentally, the Crème brûlée was indeed just as wonderful as Bradley had promised.
I wonder if Tanya would like to try some, Kaguya mused as she stared at her empty dish, only the remnant of the crust left behind. She ate almost as many cookies as me, after all…
As the after-lunch conversation began to wind down, Alex the caddy discreetly slipped up to their table and, with a quick bow, knelt by Bradley's chair to murmur something into his ear. Bradley's spoon, still laden with a last bite of his pudding, paused in mid-air as the young noble listened intently to his servant before turning to Kaguya, a broad smile worming its way across his face.
Something about that smile made Kaguya's gut clench with unease. It's the gloating, she decided. He's pleased, very pleased, about something.
"Well, Lady Sophie," Bradley began before pausing to take the last bite of his pudding, relishing the taste as he replaced his spoon by his plate, "there's one less troublemaker in the world now."
"Oh?" Kaguya blinked guilelessly at the Britannian from across the table, her eyes wide with clearly telegraphed interested innocence. "Well, that sounds delightful! But… I must ask, which troublemaker are you referring to now, Lord Bradley? Sometimes, it seems like the whole Area is full of nothing but troublemakers. It's so hard to keep track of them all!""
"Oh," Bradly blinked, surprise at her question momentarily displacing the smug satisfaction from his face. The surprise in turn firmed into a frown of patrician disapproval that sat ill at ease on his flabby features. Indeed, the expression was so clearly unnatural and practiced that Kaguya was forced to assume that the boy had practiced it at length in a mirror, presumably trying to imitate one of his betters, most likely his father. "Yes… yes, I see your point. The Empire is truly vexed with an abundance of rats scurrying underfoot these days, isn't it? Sad that such a state is practically taken as a given now… Not that a lady in your position would need to burden herself with the specifics."
"Not for the most part," Kaguya agreed with a careless shrug that, while equally as practiced as Bradley's disapproving frown, suited her role as Lady Sophie, wide-eyed gadabout. "That's really what the help is for, isn't it? I'm not really much for the news myself, I'm afraid. It's far too dull and always so depressing, except when Prince Clovis is giving a speech! Honestly," she rolled her eyes theatrically, eliciting an appreciative chuckle from her companion, "it's enough of a bore keeping up with all of the reports my company's directors insist I read, not to mention all of the household accounts Lady Annabeth forces me to slave over!"
"Quite understandable," Bradley nodded understandingly. "You bear a heavy cross indeed, Lady Sophie. It's no fault of your own that your lessons were… delayed, and it's commendable how hard you have worked to master them."
The happy smile on Kaguya's face was not at all forced. Indeed, it was sweet as honey, as elegantly manicured as any hedgerow and, indeed, just as naturally occuring. "Thank you so much for your understanding, Lord Bradley."
"Not to worry," he replied, magnanimous in his dismissal. "But… Where were we… Oh, yes, in any case, this particular troublemaker is the infamous Yokohoma Sniper! Surely," he implored, "you have heard the name, at least? That's all any of the news stations have talked about for a week now!'
"Ah, yes," Kaguya smiled as the knot in her stomach cinched itself tight. "I think I've heard about him, but I more or less tuned it out. I'm not much of a newshound, remember? So I don't really know all the unpleasant details, but… well, the name is quite self-explanatory, isn't it? Almost on the nose."
"Heard of her!" Bradley corrected triumphantly. "They just got her! And not a day too soon."
"A… woman?" Kaguya blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I… can't say I was expecting that." Remembering herself, she quickly added, "I mean, aren't men supposed to be the ones who are all about passion and the hot blood of battle and all that? Flying off the handle like this Sniper presumably did seems like a very… masculine thing."
That's it, Kaguya told herself as she carefully deflected the lordling's attention away from her gender, play into the Britannian norms and use them to your advantage… The girl sitting across the table from you definitely has no stomach for the fight. And another girl commanding a city from a bunker doesn't have passion enough to rekindle a nation's fiery heart. Just a pair of harmless girls, nothing to see here…
And as 'Lady Sophie' deflected and disarmed, the rest of Sumeragi Kaguya smoldered with fury. Damn that bitch of a sniper! She'll blow the cover for the rest of us!
"Well," replied Bradley dismissively, resettling himself in his chair as Kaguya's stomach dropped through the floor, "what can you expect from the Elevens, Lady Sophie? Unlike yourself, they're hardly… Civilized."
She nodded along, her tongue heavy and still behind her lips. It was, a distant corner of Kaguya noted, almost sweet how he made exceptions for present company without having to be reminded. By Britannian standards, that's positively cosmopolitan.
"Yes," Kaguya heard herself say, "they're so childlike sometimes. I mean, you wouldn't believe how much trouble I've had with even the newer Honoraries, to say nothing about the outright Numbers. It's like they don't want to understand."
It was her voice, but those weren't her words. Kaguya was busy, a cascade of possibilities running through her head as the lessons and propaganda her Britannian tutor had hammered into Lady Sophie operated autonomously.
"Exactly!" Bradley agreed vigorously, his eyes alight with interest and misplaced sympathy. "They just don't seem to understand their place! You would think after six years the lesson would have seeped into their thick heads, but…" He shrugged. "Maybe this time, they'll learn. His Highness the Viceregal Governor did up the punitive quota, after all, and if a thousand to one doesn't send a message, nothing will."
It will send a message indeed. Kaguya felt cold with the certainty, all ice and cut-glass clarity. Oh yes, it will send a message indeed. Lord Tossei and his faction have just lost once and for all as soon as that message is made. If the Britannians seriously carry out the full penalty set forth in Proclamation Nine in a city, not just out in the Niigata countryside, it means that it will only be a matter of time before there are no Elevens left, and quite likely no Eleven-descended Honoraries either. The conservative "wait and see" approach is doomed.
By sending this message, the Britannians have only guaranteed that the Day of Liberation will soon dawn. And I have secured the sun in my camp and given her as many bright beams as I could to scour the barbarians away.
"Quite right," Kaguya agreed aloud, directing a fraction of her attention at Bradley as her mind whirred. As soon as the news broke, events would begin to unfurl at breakneck speed. She wouldn't be the one to set the tinder ablaze, of course, but she wasn't going to stand around waiting to be burnt either. Timetables would have to be accelerated, shipments of weapons and supplies in and people out would have to be accelerated… "And if they won't learn this time, won't understand the course history has plotted for them now… Then they will never understand."
And if that's the case, then we truly are dead as a people. If a mass sacrifice of ten thousand, even twenty thousand, isn't enough to breathe renewed life into the Yamato-damashii, then it matters little how many bodies the Britannians stack, for we will already be as corpses.
"Quite right!" Bradley nodded, his budding double-chin bobbing slightly as the servant Alex stood at his back, thoughtful eyes nestled in a bland, empty face. "But for now… I think the rest of our game awaits. Nine more holes, eh?"
"Then by all means," Kaguya replied, rising to her feet in a single graceful movement, an almost burning energy suffusing her limbs in a desperate need to move, "I'm ready for the next round if you are!"
A Voice for the Past: A Warrior Without a WarJULY 7, 2016 ATB
KAWAKAMI, NARA PREFECTURE
1900
As the sun slipped away beyond the broad shoulders of Mount Sanjo, Tohdoh Kyoshiro settled down on the cracked old foundation stones that marked the place where Obatani Hamlet had once stood.
Once of the Republican Japanese Army, for a time the personal armsmaster of the Kururugi Household, now of the Japan Liberation Front, many miles had passed below Kyoshiro's boots since his childhood, much of which had been spent at his grandfather's home in Kawakami Village, or at the Kendo dojo the old warhorse had devoted himself to in his retirement.
Tohdoh Koichiro, like his son and his grandson, had been a military man for the bulk of his adult life. Unlike his son, Koichiro had seen combat under the last Emperor of Japan, during the failed attempt to expand the Empire of Japan onto the Asian mainland. The scars the great undertaking had left on his grandfather had been clearly visible to the young Kyoshiro, for all that his body had survived the trials of Khabarovsk, Vladivostok, and Karafuto intact.
The stories the old man would tell when the snow fell over the Omine Mountains left an indelible mark on Kyoshiro. Stories of dedication to the Emperor and the Land of the Rising Sun, of the devotion forged between comrades in untenable situations, of ingenuity in the face of overwhelming might. Stories of the loss of comrades and the loss of hope, the suffering of the wounded, and of how the dedication to something greater than oneself became a shield against the pain and the despair.
All of these stories, Kyoshiro Tohdoh had carried with him when he followed in his father and grandfather's footsteps. Like his father and grandfather, he had enrolled at the Republican Japanese Army Academy, and like his father and grandfather, had graduated with honors, whereupon he had taken the oath of service to Japan and her government.
He had been commissioned as a Lieutenant of the Artillery.
Between his excellent grades, his father and grandfather's networks of contacts in the Army bureaucracy, and the Tohdoh family's history of military service dating back to the Bafuku, he had risen rapidly through the peacetime RJA. His superiors were impressed by his stoic demeanor and sincere devotion to the ideals he had learned from his grandfather's stories. His non-coms were impressed by his willingness to get his hands dirty in the pursuit of deepening his proficiency as an artillery commander.
That last aspect of Kyoshiro's command style had been taken directly from his grandfather's stories. Although his grandfather had served as an infantry officer, he had always emphasized how important it was to prove to the men that you understood exactly what they were doing, and that you could hold your own in any one of their tasks.
"That," Koichiro told his attentive grandson, "is how you get more than just respect for your rank. That's how you get their loyalty. Prove that you know what they're doing, what they're feeling. Show that you're not afraid of an honest day's work."
Consequently, Kyoshiro had always made a point to serve on one of his battalion's self-propelled howitzers at some point during every field exercise, not as a battery commander or even displacing the sergeant commanding the howitzer's crew, but rather as a mere loader or a gunner. His grandfather's wisdom had paid off; in every command Kyoshiro held on his way up the ranks, his men consistently outperformed every other artillery formation in every metric assessed.
Oh, how they had cheered…
Kyoshiro sighed, brought back to the present with the echoes of his long-dead 2nd Battalion still ringing in his ears. It was, he noted, a beautiful night. The moon was already out, hanging brilliantly in the sky in the last rays of sunlight, and the cicadas were out in force.
Here, a kilometer and a half away from the nearest access point into the JLF tunnel system radiating out from below the sacred mountain to his west, he was thankfully alone. Only here, in a village that had already been dying when he was a boy, was Kyoshiro free, free from his subordinates in the Knightmare Corps, free of General Katase's endless need for advice and support, and most of all, freed from the damnable "Tohdoh of Miracles."
Miracles… How grotesque.
Intellectually, Kyoshiro understood the name he had been given by some propagandist in the dying Kururugi Administration. It was important to give the people hope that the Britannians could be defeated, and symbols were crucial in inspiring and preserving hope. It was that cold understanding that had kept his grief-stricken temper and shattered nerves intact during that meeting with the remnants of the General Staff, where they had congratulated him for his victory and had addressed him by that nickname in a speech broadcast via radio to all of Japan, immediately making him a living symbol of hope.
His stoic demeanor had held fast until he found his way to the quarters assigned to "Tohdoh of Miracles." Being the man of the hour, he had been given a private room, a reprieve from the crowded barracks bunkers the surviving rank and file had been crammed into. As soon as the door had closed behind him, once he was confident that he was alone, Kyoshiro had finally allowed himself to grieve for the lost 1st Battalion, 7th Heavy Artillery Regiment, the sister formation of his own 2nd Battalion.
No miracle had been enough to save them, to save the city that they had died to a man to protect…
Kyoshiro sighed again, and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. In and out, in and out…
And as his breathing calmed and his heart rate slowed, Kyoshiro allowed himself to remember Itsukushima.
It was August 13th, 2010. The Britannians had made landfall three days earlier, and Japan hadn't been anywhere near ready to receive them. The Navy, somehow caught flat-footed by the massive Britannian armadas approaching the Republic from three directions, was for the most part caught in their berths, the handful of vessels who managed to put to sea sent below the waves in hours. The Air Force was similarly under-prepared, and by the time the Britannians advanced on Hiroshima, they had enjoyed air supremacy for days.
Despite enjoying an uncontested sky and control of the waves beyond the coastal artillery guarding the harbor's mouth, the Britannians had still managed to bungle the assault on the city. It was the first piece of luck Lieutenant Colonel Tohdoh had enjoyed that day.
From his post at the Takanosu Battery on Itsukushima, Kyoshiro had watched as the Britannians attacked Hiroshima from the east the day before, following National Route 2 and the Sanyo Expressway in a baffling line of advance from Fukuyama. The fighting in the city had been intense, if tragically short. The city's garrison had done their best to hold their position but over the course of the day and the night the Britannians had steadily forced their way through the dense suburbs and urban core, driving the Japanese Army back.
The stand of the Hiroshima Garrison would have been over much more quickly if the Britannians hadn't somehow miscoordinated the second mandible of their pincer, the seaborne force arriving only after everything east of the Ota River had already fallen to the Britannian landward forces. But somehow, whether it had been poor communication or some bizarre interservice rivalry, the Royal Britannian Navy only arrived in Hiroshima Bay after the fall of Hiroshima City was all but assured.
If that mistiming of the two assault wings had been Kyoshiro's first piece of luck, the second must have been whatever failing led to the initial Britannian disregard for his Takanosu Battery, and for its sister battery across the harbor, the Mitakayama Battery.
Oh, how arrogant the Britannian sailors and marines had been in their approach! Kyoshiro could still see the pale gray profiles of the destroyer escort, the two warships carelessly shepherding the four slab-sided amphibious assault vessels directly into the mouth of Hiroshima Bay. Those assault vessels were already deploying a swarm of tiny landing craft by the time the approaching flotilla advanced to Onasabi Island, each carrying a squad or so of Britannian Marines, or else one of the at the time newly revealed Knightmares.
He and Lieutenant Colonel Ienaga, in command of the 1st Battalion of the same 7th Heavy Artillery Regiment that was the parent formation of Kyoshiro's own 2nd Battalion, had frantically coordinated as they realized that the Britannians would motor right past their positions without so much as an attempt at suppressing fire. Kyoshiro, by dint of having a commission three months senior of Ienaga's, had the dubious honor of deciding the moment to fire.
It had been glorious.
The Britannian destroyers sweeping into Hiroshima Bay had been grand vessels, all clean steel lines and bristling spires, standing as tall and proud in the water as the Britannian emperor's own household guard on their parade ground. Both ships were stuffed from stem to stern with the most advanced sensors and missile systems the arrogant superpower could boast and carried enough ordinance to level a city while hiding behind the horizon, all protected by teeming point defense cannons.
Even an army officer with multiple generations of antipathy for any naval force such as Tohdoh would freely admit that the destroyers of His Imperial Majesty's fleet were impressive, true knights of the waves in all of their menacing glory.
But so close to shore, under the twenty four total howitzers of Tohdoh's two artillery battalions, all of the flotilla's might meant nothing. Their point defense cannons, designed to fend off aircraft or intercept air-to-surface missiles, were hopelessly overwhelmed, drowned under the iron rain of eight batteries. Their gleaming steel hulls, triumphs of technology each, were ripped asunder by the merciless 15cm high explosive shells that fell as swift and true as the gods' own vengeance. Trapped in the Bay between Kyoshiro's battalion to their west and Ienaga's battalion to their east, all the Britannian naval detachment could do was die.
Within four minutes of Kyoshiro's order to fire, the once pristine ships were almost unrecognizable, smoke belching from their ravaged hulls as a terrible blaze consumed them. One destroyer was halfway submerged, sailors launching lifeboats as the stern sank below the surface of Hiroshima Bay. Her sister, holed below the waterline by a lucky shot, was already capsizing, her crew desperately throwing themselves into the sea as the unlucky were sucked down into the depths along with their ship.
The transport ships loaded with Britannian marines, their supplies, and their vehicles, most especially including the complement of Portmans, had likewise met their doom.
The battalion had been elated, and Kyoshiro, knowing even then that the Britannians would not allow their defiance to remain unpunished, hadn't the heart to quash their enthusiastic cheers. Instead, he'd radioed his compliments to Ienaga and set to work coordinating with the battalion of infantry attached to his 2nd Battalion as guards; the Britannian transports had managed to offload many of their soldiers and even some Knightmares into their landing craft, and those survivors would be out for revenge.
As it turned out, Lieutenant Colonel Ienaga and his unlucky 1st Battalion would be the recipients of that vengeance. The Britannians spurned the high cliffs and densely forested slopes of Itsukushima in favor of the lower-lying Etajima Island, where Ienaga commanded the Mitakayama Battery. Kyoshiro could do nothing but silently watch the ensuing slaughter, gripping his binoculars with white-knuckled fury. Could do nothing but watch, and make adjustments.
Before the Conquest had begun, before Britannia had come to Hiroshima's shores, when they had first been assigned to coastal guard duty, Kyoshiro had sat down with his fellow officer of the 7th Artillery. As their colonel would be otherwise engaged with personally directing the 3rd and 4th Battalions in their defense of the landward approaches into Hiroshima Prefecture, it would be up to the pair of them to direct their own efforts to keep the seaward approach to the city clear.
Among the many plans and contingencies he and Ienada had worked out, Kyoshiro had suggested a last, desperate fall-back, for use in the event that troops had already landed on the beaches and it was too late to attempt a retreat. In such an occasion, each battery would sight on the other's position and wait until the enemy broke through the defensive perimeter and into the cleared ground of the Battery itself, a prepared killing ground conveniently stocked with sensitive ordnance primed to provide secondary detonations.
Kyoshiro had passed the order himself, breaking radio silence to give the codeword. "Gyokusai," he had stated into the radio's receiver, the taste of the word cold and revolting in his mouth. The long arms of his howitzers had risen as one, battery commanders passing down pre-planned firing solutions and gun lieutenants making hurried adjustments before all twelve guns of the battalion spoke as one.
The resulting sea of explosions had washed over the northern reaches of Etajima Island, the munitions in the Mitakayama Battery's bunkers detonating in sympathy with the bombardment Kyoshiro had ordered on his sister unit. While the view through his binoculars was obscured behind thick, burning smoke and plumes of debris during the shelling itself, Kyoshiro had no difficulty imagining the shrapnel scything through friend and foe alike, nor the bleeding eyes and ears ruptured from overblast.
When the smoke finally cleared, Kyoshiro kept himself steelly calm as the concussed remnants of the Britannian assault staggered back down to the beaches where their landing craft waited. As the invaders pulled themselves back together, Kyoshiro kept himself calm, issuing new orders as he shoved the horror at what he had done away.
There was still, after all, much to do.
The next set of targeting solutions were distributed among the grimly waiting men of his batteries by runners, the radio shunned on the off-chance that the Britannians were listening in. The battery commanders and gun lieutenants again made adjustments until Kyoshiro was satisfied that the entirety of the channel between Itsukushima and Onasabi Island was blanketed in overlapping fields of fire.
The Britannians, Kyoshiro had known with bleak certainty, would be frustrated that their revenge had been spoiled and infuriated at the fresh insult. Their renewed assault was never in question.
He had also known that he had no intention of allowing his battalion to follow Ienaga's into the afterlife. Admittedly, there was little risk of that now, not until the Britannians managed to muster reinforcements, but going to war with only a single arrow in the quiver was foolish. He had summoned the major commanding the infantry battalion guarding his artillery to him and had brought the man in on his plans.
Unsurprisingly, the infantry major was all to eager to collaborate, his awe at the destruction Kyoshiro had wrought written plainly across his face. Soon, the infantrymen had joined his artillerymen in making their own hasty preparations. Though both worked frantically with shovels and entrenching tools, the infantrymen's rifles were never far from their hands.
They needn't have hurried; by the time the Britannian officers had finished licking their wounds and reimposing some measure of order on their surviving forces, all was in order.
When the Britannian marines and sailors set back out to sea in their landing vessels, they had been like some awful oil slick spreading across Japanese waters. Among the swarming flotilla of ships overly-burdened with blood-mad sailors and marines, a handful of Knightmares had stood like demons among the churning mortals, their giant frames haughty and unmoving among the onslaught. Despite their reduced numbers, the Britannians were still clearly spoiling for a fight.
Their pride remained unchallenged until the survivors of the naval invasion of Hiroshima were more than halfway to Itsukushima, too far to easily turn back to the shelter of Etajima or Onasabi's coasts.
For a second time, as Hiroshima burned behind them, Kyoshiro's guns bellowed their fury. This time, his howitzers were joined in their chorus by the infantry battalion's 81mm mortars as the first Britannian marines and sailors stumbled onto Itsukushima's shores. The infantry, dug into shallow foxholes between the trees on the slopes overlooking the lower firing positions of Takanosu Battery, did their best to throw the intruders back into the bay as the artillery company assigned to the beachside position retreated up the hill to rejoin the rest of Kyoshiro's 2nd Battalion.
That battalion of infantry had fought like lions as Kyoshiro again ordered his section chiefs to make adjustments. As rifles blazed and mortars thumped on the beach below, the howitzers' barrels had climbed towards the sky until they had practically reached their maximum elevation. Then, once the word was passed down the line once more, Lieutenant Colonel Tohdoh Kyoshiro had commanded them to fire as one.
The last of their explosive shells rose in high arcs into the skies over the shrine island before descending almost straight down like the lightning of Susanoo himself, and like the kami's wrath, the howitzers smote the Britannians as they huddled on the beach, the infantry pinned in place for just long enough to bog down the Portmans wading ashore through the sticky mud of the tidal flats. And, while the armored Knightmares could withstand the light shells of the infantry mortars with ease, the ship-killing artillery under Kyoshiro's command was a different matter.
Even as the last survivors of the Britannian flotilla meant to take Hiroshima by sea died on the beach below him, Kyoshiro had given the order to prepare to retreat. The Fall of Hiroshima was already an inevitability, and even then Kyoshiro had known that the fight for Japan was only just begun. But as his men scrambled around him, he had thought of nothing but the shelling he had ordered on the 1st Battalion's position.
He had been watching through his binoculars as his order was executed. He had seen figures in the olive green of the Republic's army still fighting the gray-clad invaders, before both had vanished under fire and steel.
Such was the cost of victory.
Ultimately, the "Miracle of Itsukushima" had been a tactical victory at best, from where Kyoshiro had stood at his island command post six years ago, and from where he knelt in the ruins of the present it hardly looked like a victory at all. His battalion had retreated in good order, their self-propelled howitzers, their personnel carriers, their ammunition trucks, and their headquarters vehicles accompanied by the jeeps and the trucks of the infantry battalion on a convoy west into the mountains of Shimane Prefecture, but they left Hiroshima burning behind them, the last stalwarts of the doomed garrison succumbing to the Britannian advance.
But, tactical victory or not, it had been the only victory of any note won by the Republic's forces during the Conquest. To a people desperate for hope, and to a leadership hungry for symbols, that had been all that mattered. Even as he led his convoy up into the mountains, the shattered remains of other RJA units joining his column as he retreated to the prepared positions in his nation's spine, every radio broadcast spoke of "Tohdoh of Miracles" and "the Miracle of Itsukushima."
Even the men who had fought under his command, infantrymen and his own artillerymen alike, parroted those stupid phrases, preferring the propaganda over the contents of their own memories. Kyoshiro's stoic resolve, modeled after that of his Imperial grandfather, had saved him from despairing as all of those hopeful eyes turned towards him. Carrying the weight of their hopes was another duty, he had recognized, and Tohdoh Kyoshiro had never backed down from duty.
Which was why he had left his column under the command of his second, Major Urabe, to bring the men the rest of the way. Lieutenant Colonel Tohdoh Kyoshiro had been Instructor Tohdoh during peacetime, and he had a duty to his student. He had left to find the young Kururugi, the young man who bore the ancient blood and the name of the last ruler on his strong shoulders, and in that duty Kyoshiro had failed. The Britannian advance swept over Kururugi Shrine long before he got anywhere close to the Prime Minister's residence, and Kyoshiro had been forced to return to the Matsumoto Headquarters empty-handed.
Only to learn that Urabe, doing his best to advance his commanding officer's glory and honor, had heavily stressed how Kyoshiro had bested the naval Portmans during the battle, taking advantage of the environmental factors to slow the highly mobile armored units before bombarding them into burning wrecks.
General Katase, Kyoshiro learned, had been most impressed, saying that "any man who understands the enemy so well must surely be able to imitate them! When the Day of Liberation comes, we will need our greatest warrior to turn the Britannians finest blades back against them! upon themselves!"
The words had stoked the fires of his hidden rage to an even greater inferno. It had been a great trial over all of these years, holding his composure together in the face of similar comments. General Katase and the rest of the JLF's staff had, Kyoshiro feared, drawn entirely the wrong lessons from the Conquest. As if the Knightmare is truly the reason Britannia won. As if an artillery officer could hope to turn the tide of war commanding such an entirely different beast. As if a coward of a man could be called a great warrior while the true heroes lay dead and forgotten.
He was a coward. If Kyoshiro had truly been brave, he would have forced those lessons down Katase's gullet, decorum and the protocols of rank be damned. Instead, he had hidden behind his stoicism and avoided that fight, his emotions far too tender and raw for the confrontation. He had swallowed his words, grudgingly accepted the praise, and set to work learning how to pilot the enemy's weapon as best he could without a Knightmare to call his own, hiding in his work both from his own pain and from "Tohdoh of Miracles."
And now, it was far too late to say what should have been said then. It had been six long years since the Battle of Itsukushima. Six long years since he had fought and failed to save the burning city behind him, and over those six years Kyoshiro still had yet to save anybody from the same devouring maw that had fed upon Lieutenant Colonel Ienada, his colleague, and his command.
And yet, they still look to me, look to "Tohdoh the Miracleworker." Even now, as Yokohama bleeds, they look to me. What can I say to them? What can I do for them? How can a second-rate artillery officer become the knight in shining armor they so desire? With a sword sharp enough to avenge a million wrongs and a shield to ward away all blows?
The moon, waxing gibbous overhead, kept her secrets and gave no relief.
Tiredly, Kyoshiro got to his feet once more. It was time to return, time to put together some sort of response to Yokohama. Time to become "Tohdoh of Miracles" once more.
That was duty, and that was all that Japan had ever demanded of him. He had never measured up to his duty as he saw it, not to his student Suzaku, not to his battalion, all gone now save for himself and Urabe, and not to his nation. But the demand still went forth, and there was nothing Kyoshiro could do to answer it but be another man.
A Voice for the Present: A Voice from YokohamaJULY 7, 2016 ATB
KONAN WARD, YOKOHAMA GHETTO, YOKOHAMA SETTLEMENT
2100
They came at sundown.
Nobody was surprised.
The entirety of the Yokohama Ghetto had been waiting for the hammer to fall for days. As soon as the Sniper had begun to target Britannians in the nearby Settlement, an inescapable gloom had fallen across the Ghetto.
Everybody knew what was coming. It had been six years since the Conquest, six years of unremitting random cruelty periodically punctuated by outbreaks of utter mercilessness. The walls of Yokohama Ghetto bore the silent scars of past acts of retribution, lines of bullet holes at chest height, with occasional pitting lower down, where the Britannians had aimed low enough to hit the children.
Back before the Conquest, Sayuri had been a proud wife and mother, a happy sister and daughter. Now, she was only a wife, though she had woken up this morning a mother.
Beside her, Susumu lurched forwards, his left arm hanging limply at his side, the crude bandage on his shoulder doing little to immobilize the useless appendage. Dried blood caked his fingers and the leg of his worn trousers. Though she hadn't looked at him in over an hour, she was certain that his face was still gray with pain and streaked with tears, his eyes fixed on some point down the tightly packed road.
His lips still fluttering in mute apology to Kazuha.
Just like Sayuri's were.
"Kazu…" Her throat was dry, so dry. Her eyes hurt. That was good. They should hurt, for what they had seen. "Kazu… I'm sorry, baby… I've been a bad mother to you…"
Behind her and off to the side of the road, Sayuri heard a shot. Someone had fallen out of line.
"Kazu…"
Her husband had always had a nice, deep voice, good for singing the dirty drinking songs he'd always break into when he and her brother would get together to "play cards." Now, it was barely a croak.
"Kazuha…"
The sticky summer heat was almost intolerable, but Sayuri could feel her skin prickling, clammy and inexplicably cold despite the night's sultry summer heat.
"Hurry up! Keep moving!" The barked order came from somewhere up ahead, and Sayuri momentarily shied away from that horrible voice, so much like the one that had said "that one" over a finger pointed straight at her six-year-old daughter.
Sayuri stumbled on. What else could she do? The time to stand and fight was over, long since over. If the time to stand and fight hadn't ended with the Conquest, it had certainly ended when the gray-clad soldiers had pulled Kazuha from her arms, when she had let them take her away.
"Momma! Momma, help!" She could still hear her daughter's voice in her ears. "I'm scared, Momma! It hurts!"
"Kazu…" She swallowed, her throat tight, her eyes painfully dry. "I'm sorry… I'm a bad mother to you… Please forgive me… But…"
Susumu stirred beside her, and she saw his head start to turn towards her in her peripheral vision. She hoped he would be angry, that he would strike her, beat her, kill her for daring to be alive and unwounded while their last child was heaped up in a pile at the foot of the wall outside their apartment building, while his bones were shattered from a stray bullet slashing through his shoulder.
Instead, Susumu only sighed, his head slumped forwards as he trudged on. Where were the Britannians taking them? It didn't matter.
"But…" Sayuri continued, still seeing her daughter standing right before her eyes, her arms pinned to her sides by a towering giant in a faceless mask, as real as her half-visible neighbors, her comrades on this nighttime march. "But… I realized I'm scared to die, Kazu… I'm scared… I'm sorry… I know you don't want to die either… But Momma is scared, Kazu… Forgive me…"
Ahead, the crowd was slowing, halting. Bellowed orders drifted from the front. Something was happening.
"Get in line!" A rough hand shoved her, shoved her away from Susumu, who stood silent, his face exhausted and grief-stricken. "Get in line, bitch!"
A gloved hand grabbed Sayuri's hair, still tied back in its usual ponytail, dragging her face forwards and down. She staggered forwards, into whatever queue the soldier had put her into, and when she turned back around she couldn't see Susumu through the milling press. Somewhere behind her, someone screamed. There was another gunshot, then another two, and then hard-edged laughter mixed in with something in Britannian she couldn't quite understand.
An overwhelming fear struck Sayuri, the first thing she had felt, truly felt, since she watched Kazuha crumple to the blood-streaked concrete. Where was Susumu? Where was her husband, her last link to the life she'd once had, to the time of family dinners after long work days, to picking out baby names, and to dates in college?
"Kazu…" She croaked, fear bubbling in her chest. "Is this you…? Did… Did you take Daddy, because I left you… Because I let them take you…?"
More screams came over the crowd, followed by more shots. Suddenly, with a lurch, the group Sayuri had been herded into was starting forwards, gloved hands shoving her into motion. She scanned the seething crowds around her as she moved, desperately looking for any familiar faces and finding nothing but strangers and darkness all around her.
Before her, a truck loomed, its open back gaping like some terrible maw. Sayuri tripped and almost fell as the crush of bodies slammed into her, first from before her as the people ahead stalled in the face of that terrible mouth, and then from behind her as the soldiers shoved them forward. Step by step, Sayuri staggered up the plank ramp leading up and into the truck, feeling the boards creaking below her feet.
Darkness surrounded her for an instant as wood disappeared in place of steel. The back was still open and only an arms-length behind her, but already the heat was sweltering and the claustrophobia was overwhelming. The truck was packed with people, forced shoulder to shoulder with no room to sit, barely any room to breathe. Fighting to turn, Sayuri saw the soldiers behind them, two of them training their rifles on the crowd while their comrades forced another few women, and they were all women being forced into this truck, up the ramp with the help of batons.
"Susumu!" Her voice was suddenly so loud, the croaking grief wiped away by animal terror. Where was she? Where were they taking her? Why were they only putting women into this truck? "Susumu! Susumu!"
The crowd heaved forwards again, and Sayuri almost lost her footing. Terrified at the idea of stumbling, of being trampled underfoot, she grabbed for the women around her, seizing their clothes, their shoulders, trying to fight off the hands she could feel scrambling for her shoulders, her hair, as the others around her struggled to find their balance.
Suddenly, everything went pitch dark as the doors to the truck slammed closed, the sound of steel on steel deafeningly loud in the unlit metal box. An instant later, a collective howl of terror, of grief, almost primal went up, filling the truck with the sound of human fear. Despite the din, Sayuri could clearly hear the sound of a bolt slamming home.
We're locked in! They locked us in!
"Susumu!" Sayuri cried out, more by instinct than by any hope that her poor shattered husband could do anything to help her! "Susumu!" Another name came to her lips and caught there, in the back of her throat, almost choking her. For a moment, she saw her daughter reaching out for her again, felt herself shying away from the soldier behind her daughter's tiny form…
And then the truck lurched forwards, sending the entire crowd scrambling again as they were forced backward, bloody hands clawing at the unforgiving rivets and sheets of the shipping container's interior, and Sayuri lost herself entirely to her terror and her grief.
"Kazuha! Kazuhaaa!"
