After what seems an eternity, True takes his turn, swipes his debit card into the slot and punches in the number. Since there’s still too much static in the atmosphere for his wrist-top to tap into any satellite feeds, he’s forced to rely on barbaric cable connections. An endless stream of advertisements fills dead time: security systems, VR sex aids, a new and improved body condom, discounts on tasers, lasers, other light armaments.
He’s into WWTV’s library database. Patches his wrist-top into the phone jack, keys in the names Kibayashi, Kyono, Kodera, and Sato, requests background info on Japan’s business and real estate practices. The grating of a gas-powered engine. True urges on the data-transference with impatient body language. A double beep: Someone’s cut access. He must have tripped the security net. True disconnects and checks the data. A blaze of pictures and digital information fires on screen. The Celebrity Stalker and Weekly Global Newsmaker video-stories are inside. He fast-forwards through them. Reiner is wrong.
It’s not just any gas-powered vehicle coming for him. A motorcycle, groaning over the bridge. No time to contemplate. True sprints away from the grumbling howls of the Harley and races into the fertility festival, trying to raise Reiner on his wrist-top. But too much interference.
It’s a Buddhist celebration. In front of a temple, men in white yukatas trimmed with blue are chanting, “Oni wa soto, fuku wa uchi”—“Out with the demons, in with good fortune.” True heard Reiner utter these words just this morning. Part of the ritual is to eat the same number of parched beans as your age, which, Reiner said, the Japanese believe promotes good health. A sumo wrestler scatters beans over the crowd. Many swig beer from bottles and sake from casks.
Festival-goers carry a portable shrine, and True runs alongside as it bobs, supported by an inebriated foursome weaving through the mob of worshippers. The motorcycle crashes through the revelers, who are slow to clear—probably think it’s part of the festivities. A gargantuan phallus, shouldered by stumbling men, snakes through the mob. Cut from gray stone, a flower attached to the tip, a face carved out of the front. A sumo wrestler, skin the color and texture of tapioca pudding, flings more beans, which people try to catch in their mouths.
True dodges the bean artillery, ducks further into the whirling crowd, hurdles a cask of sake. A man jumps True, kisses him on the lips. True slips aside, wipes his mouth, keeps searching for a way out. The bike continues to close, the bosozoku knocking people aside. The face of one of True’s Kosoku Dori attackers.
There. A ray of an opening. A building insulted by the quake, a gaping hole cut through it leading to open air, then the bridge. Leaning against the façade, a line of people passing the time, sipping rice wine. There’s a hand-painted sign, which True can’t read, and a man inside practicing karate, blocking imaginary blows and striking back furiously. True fights through the bean-eaters and shoots through the hole.
He’s suddenly in a field, a towering white castle in the distance. A man is scaling castle walls, eluding flying knives and crazed ninjas sprouting from dust. True looks to his right: a data grid, a list of Virtual Reality options—in Japanese. His wrist-top translator is gone. (The program doesn’t allow cheating.) A ninja springs forward. True puts up his hands reflexively and blocks the kick. No pain. Out of the corner of his eye sees 20,000 added to his score. The other player is in the billions. The ninja kicks again, hits True with a series of rapid-fire karate chops, although True doesn’t feel them, any of them. His point tally holds pat.
There’s a commotion, but it’s coming from outside the program, anger that True didn’t wait his turn and amusement over his plight. Now the yowling motorcycle. True tries shutting down the program, points to the grid. First the sky changes to green, then the terrain goes from flat to mountainous to desert to urban jungle back to medieval; rivers appear, disappear, the ninjas speed up then slow down. But he can’t find the fucking off switch.
A wizard with a cocaine-white beard drops down, waves his wand in mesmerizing circles—into the Ouroboros. True backs away, blinded. He’s been nuked. The game is over. The wizard trash talks, tells True he’s toast. True jumps through the hologram and out, toward the bridge. The bosozoku shuts down the game and the Harley growls again. True picks up a plank, sidesteps the bike, and jousts. The rider strikes wood, riddling True’s side with splinters. But he goes down. Hard. The bike groans on solo, lists, topples.
True limps to the bridge. The speed triber is back on his bike and gunning for him. True blurs by leaping bungee-ers, his lungs squeezed against his ribs. His nemesis is on the bridge, closing, his rifle sight jiggling with the bike, shining on an expansion joint, a bungee jumper, True’s wrist.
He weaves. A rifle’s smack and echo. Pandemonium on the bridge. Over there, his bungee mate waving him on, knife clenched in her teeth. No hesitation. He leaps onto her and they plummet to the ground; the bridge, the buildings, the world scream upward as True falls downward. He’s vaguely aware of more gunshots as they hold each other tight. The cord groans, cranky iron joints, the ground about to swallow them. They jerk to a stop. She cuts the cord and they hurtle down an embankment, bullets kicking up dirt around them. Into a patch of woods.
“Cool, huh?” she says after they slip out of sight. She’s breathing hard. Eyes shine.
“Thanks.”
Waves him off like it’s nothing. “Come back. We’ll get high and do the inverted elevator together. Now that’s, like, some shit.”
She hefts his balls slightly. Her way of paying respect.
CHAPTER 17
True’s back at WWTV. Opens the door and sees Reiner at work. “Where’s Dog? In fact, where’s your car?”
“Dog’s dead, the car stolen, and I’m on deadline.” Reiner says this without looking up. She’s cutting footage and splicing narrative: “And in a controversial decision, the Japanese Government has voted to retain Tokyo as the nation’s capital. Details are not available, but it is generally accepted that there were bills favoring a return of the capital to Kyoto, the ancient capital, and Osaka, among others. One radical suggestion was to eliminate the concept of a capital all together, proposing that governmental ministries be spread evenly throughout the nation.
“But in the end, as is usually the case in Japanese politics, it’s the status quo. I’m Reiner Jacobi, WWTV Global, reporting from Tokyo.” She files her story. “Finally finished. You want to get high?” She rubs her hands together. When she notices True, her eyes bubble. “Nice. I’ll get the medkit.”
True looks into a mirror. The splinters are ugly, but he’s surprised to see his body looking better. He’s put on weight recently, muscle too, looking more like he used to. Rustlings, then Reiner emerges. She cleans his wounds, lathers on cream to dissolve the splinters, and towels it off. When finished, she says, “You want to tell me what happened?”
“I ran into one of our friends from the expressway. I got away, but not without a little trouble.”
“Fucking speed tribe Neanderthals. Soon, them and the yakuza are going to own the whole bowl of noodles here.”
“Don’t forget the corps.” A memory: True wandering down 5th Avenue. A woman with a micro-boombox squeezing CyberRap ordering him out of her beat, as if she owned the rhythm. The question is, Who owns what in Tokyo today? “Hot was right about the capital.”
“Never should have doubted him. I’ve been trying to find out who sponsored the bill to keep the capital here, or even find out who voted for it. But nothing. The gov feels vulnerable, no doubt.”
“They should feel vulnerable.”
“I’ve got something for you to see.”
Reiner pulls up some video, unedited footage, panoramic scenes of a frightened city, sweeping shots of people in the days after the quake. True watches the city crumble again, buildings folding like accordions, people pinned under rubble. Then, enraged storms of fire.
The vibrations yield a tidal wave that pounds the shore and spills into the city. A train surfs by. The spectacle is awesome—natu
Reiner freezes the video: “See this guy?”
True: “Yeah.”
“I’ve been filtering this video chunk through a computer. Took all the possibilities, ran it through this chip-based unit, and looky here.”
She accesses the phonic enhancement program. The computer answers, “Taro Tamura, aged 38, divorced, works as a vice-president for the Matsuo Real Estate Company, Ltd.”
Reiner waves a finger at the screen. “After analyzing Tamura’s lip movements and those of the dude he’s yakking with, the computer gave me this synopsis. Check it out. This is sweet.”
Subject Tamura agreeing to pay one million yen to unidentified male for rights to property, located at 5-2-11 Mitsukoshi-cho, Ikebukuro, Tokyo.
“One million yen is nothing.” True plugs Matsuo Real Estate into his wrist-top, accesses their biz-biofile. “No land purchases in five years. Lots of sales, though. It’s as if the people running the company knew to get rid of the land before the quake.”
“I’ll get Odessa to tap into the datasphere.”
“How’ll he get power for that?”
“He’ll work something out. He practically put together the whole system by stealing microchips from vending machines and public phones after the quake knocked them out.”
She inputs a communication’s code, and almost immediately Odessa’s face, grotesquely distorted, fills the screen. “Har-dee-har-dee-har-har.” He backs up, now clear. “What the fuck you want?”
“Like, I got a job for you? You do want to make some money?”
“Natch, scratch be the right match for this hacker-deluxe catch.”
“Sending data now.”
Studying for a second, Odessa says, “Easy shit. It’ll take a while, though. It ain’t centralized, and if I’m going to be inside land transactions databanks, that means avoiding the mad dog. I got enough problems, you know?”
“I know. Just do it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
His face dissolves.
* * *
True’s awake, sweaty scared, his heart gunning. He. Is. Stoned. Extremely. Sto-o-oned. They’re in his bedroom, but Reiner’s on the floor, back against the wall, blowing pot rings, watching them float away like saucers.
She offers, “Hey handsome. You want some? You had a lot before you passed out.”
True accepts the narc. Does the narc. Doesn’t even faze his lungs now. He blows smoke through his nose and falls again into shattered worlds.
“True. I’ve been thinking.” She leans forward, touches his arm. For a moment True thinks she may be seeking love. But no. “Sorry I treated you like shit before.” She stands, legs spread in an upside down V. “Get some REM. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
Reiner closes the door, and True hopes he’ll dream of love. Of Eden.
* * *
“Shit. Not having wheels sucks.” Reiner says this after she and True ride three buses and finally stand outside Matsuo Real Estate Company. It’s a small shop held together by tape. Inside, a lone cop waving a halogen torch. True’s first instinct is to run. Reiner steps in.
“Ah, Reiner-san, Konnichiwa.” The cop bows, his light bouncing off the walls, off True.
“Konnichiwa.” Reiner bows back.
Electric Translator on.
The cop notices his light is on and flicks it off. I am impressed. There is a murder and you arrive seconds after I do. Are you monitoring my communications again?
I would never—Why aren’t there any police cars out front?
No electricity. No gas. How did you hear of this so quickly?
I thought I might get a good deal on a new WWTV office.
Matsuo Real Estate is not a landlord.
Who’s dead, Captain Togo? Reiner makes a production of turning on her wrist-top.
Togo poses with a vinyl smile. This is a strange circumstance, but the public should be assured that the police are working on it assiduously.
Noted. Reiner at her driest. If only Togo knew how fizzle-brained Reiner is after a night of reefer madness. So who’s dead?
Togo leans over and whispers into Reiner’s ear. She looks at him and turns off her wrist-top. Off the record. But True can still pick it up.
Witnesses claim that Taro Tamura, while speaking with a customer, collapsed into air. There is no body that I’ve been able to locate. The witness is being truthful, so far as I can determine.
Tamura disappeared, like poof?
It appears so. And with most of my platoon either dead or with their families, I’ll be working on this, and many other cases, alone.
Not much a chance to figure out what happened here, then?
I am sad to report that what you say is true.
Is it possible he was murdered? Perhaps a new type of laser. But then why would anyone murder him?
Maybe speculation.
Go ahead. Speculate. Temper, temper, Reiner.
No. land speculation. My guess is he was involved with the yakuza, or maybe a keiretsu, and he lost a substantial amount of their money on a poor investment. The earthquake has most certainly diminished the value of assets he may have brokered. If you find out anything I would greatly appreciate it if you would contact me.
Usually you and your boys try to squelch my curiosity.
Times have changed, Reiner-san, maybe forever.
Reiner grins, tickled by this reverse in fortune. OK. If I find anything out, I’ll call you. How’s your wife?
Togo switches on his halogen torch, and lost in thought, seeks a more elusive answer. When Reiner turns to leave, Togo calls to her. My wife died a few hours ago. She was badly injured in the earthquake. Thank you for asking.
Out front. True: “It could be a new technology. Cops never know the ‘new and improved.’”
“Could be, rabbit. Too bad about his wife, though. I studied flower arranging with her for years. But the captain’s analysis is backwards.”
“Yeah. My guess is that Tamura was killed not because he lost money. He was killed because he made someone money—a lot of it, too—but he couldn’t be trusted to keep his lips fused. You think someone’s on to us, decided to shore up his or her defenses?”
“Odessa checked on surveillance. Zippo.”
“What if Odessa did the intrigue bit and sold us out?”
* * *
Hours and many bus rides later. At Reiner’s place.
She checks her messages. None.
True’s losing himself in her plants. “When are you going to harvest?”
“Don’t need to. It’s a new strain. Forever budding.”
“You should call Odessa.”
“What I’m doing right now.” She waits. Tries again.
True sniffs herbal-scented fingers. “Not there?”
The screen reads: engaging.
Reiner talking: “Scotty says ‘Transporter malfunction, Captain.’”
She pans his room with the telelink, eventually priming on a twitchy boot, then the whole. Odessa. There’s no way to revive him long distance. Off to Odessa’s, a few standing buildings away. By the time they arrive, Odessa’s groggy-wake, sipping coffee. He offers True and Reiner a cup of “El Exigente.”
“No, no coffee,” True says. “What happened?”
“Say nanu-nanu to a fuckup. I’m checking into your shit and get blind-sided.”
“What shit?”
“Doing my usual leaping over tall buildings, bending steel, and what have you. I got to the recent land transactions you wanted. The
n this bright light hits me, discom-fucking-bobulates my ass. I could be dead.”
Reiner says, “Find out anything?”
“Yeah, yeah, didn’t come away empty-handed, you know? No doubt about it. Somebodies are buying up this lunar landscape.”
“A few corps?”
“Correctomundo.” Odessa kisses his fingers.
True: “You should check the banks. Find out which ones are funding this.”
“Did it, and no, they ain’t. These corps got bread baking in a lot of ovens. Streams of foreign assets are being sucked here. Dude could get steamrolled in data like that.”
* * *
Electricity has been restored in some sections, buildings are patched together or razed to earth, restaurants and stores reopening. Tokyo, bloodied, dazed, but not dead. And the news that the capital is staying brings renewed vigor.
True sits in a ramen shop, watches the shogun-old owner roll and flatten noodles by hand, take orders, fry vegetables, steam gyoza, boil noodles, and serve cavernous portions. There’s still an exodus from Tokyo, people whose homes are no more, whose land is marked by gaping tiger-striped cracks. There are too many homeless now, too many have-nots, and the government at a loss on how to act. Tent cities do not match the warmth and succoring of relatives in other cities or of friends abroad. It will take years to erase the physical effects, longer to rid the mind of the memories.
Eden arrives, harried, her hair slicking down into her eyes, her sundress crumpled. She rushes to True’s table and sits. She calls out her order. True orders the same, whatever that is. Eden’s not looking at him. She’s searching, True knows, for the right words. Looking bad. Very bad. Yet he can’t take his eyes off her. Her beauty tugs at True’s unfurnished soul.